


Live Long and Prosper

by TheSilverQueen



Series: Kingsman Big/Reverse Bangs [3]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Magical Bond, Magical Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 43,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23206024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilverQueen/pseuds/TheSilverQueen
Summary: If Harry had been a better man, he would have taken Eggsy to the mirror and the elevator, and he would have stood behind him in the mirror, and he would have asked him what he saw. He would have inducted Eggsy into Kingsman, he would have offered him a place to train as a knight, he would have seen him take the place his father nearly earned.But Harry is not a better man. Harry is a fae, and no fae will do such a thing without a favor, and Eggsy spent the only favor he had when he got out of prison.So Harry will have Eggsy as his pet instead, and take all the blessings and fights that are sure to follow.
Relationships: Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin
Series: Kingsman Big/Reverse Bangs [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1552924
Comments: 45
Kudos: 185
Collections: Kingsman Reverse Bang





	1. a favor spent

**Author's Note:**

> This is my (extremely belated) contribution to the [Kingsman Reverse Bang](https://kingsmanreversebang.dreamwidth.org/)! I was blessed enough to have been able to work off of [Chibiesque's beautiful art](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/ze9mpxbb9gj5xp6/14.JPG?dl=0), which immediately gave me the FeelsTM because W I N G S. 
> 
> I was also blessed to have been given an extension by the wonderful mods after some health issues landed me in the hospital & derailed everything; all my love and gratitude to them for their hard work putting this together.

_Once upon a time, a fae and a human got into an argument, and they summoned Death to act as witness and mediator and judge._

_“What am I to judge?” said Death, ancient and patient beyond measure._

_“The definition of a favor,” came the answer._

_“I’ll go first,” said the fae, with sleek wings of blue and robes of silver and a sly smile. “A favor is a bargain, crafted and molded and carefully struck.”_

* * *

The first time Eggsy sees Harry Hart, he’s taken aback by him, for a lot of reasons. One of them is his incredibly fancy suit, because Eggsy’s got an instinct over what separates those with fat wallets and those with only coins to spare and the threat of starvation has honed that instinct to perfection. Another is the fact that he’s got sunglasses on, which wouldn’t be out of place in direct sunlight, but he’s in the shade, and Eggsy’s got an eye for details. Thirdly, and probably most importantly, is the sight of enormous wings that arch out of the man’s back, beautifully outlined in black and detailed with rich greens and blues that fade to a subtle yellow closer to his spine, an unmistakable sign of one of the fae.

“I’m the man who got you released,” he says, head tilted just so, an arrogant smile on his face.

And Eggsy knows, just like every other human knows, that fae can’t lie. 

That doesn’t mean they have to tell the truth.

“That ain’t an answer,” Eggsy shoots back, because technically, he isn’t. “The woman who answered my phone call and passed on my message, she’s the one who got me released. You’re just an insect trying to take credit.”

“A little gratitude would be nice,” he replies, but there’s a bit of a softening in his arrogant smile, something that transforms it from pure arrogance to a mix of delight and intrigue. Maybe it’s how Eggsy is using loopholes in his sentence against him, or maybe it’s just the insult that fae have been trying to shrug off for centuries. Or maybe he just thinks he should’ve left Eggsy to rot in prison.

Then his next words blow all of those thoughts clear out of the water: “My name is Harry Hart, and I gave you that medal. Your father saved my life.”

* * *

When they sit down at the bar, Eggsy spends a good long moment staring at Hart, mostly because he’s heard only a couple of stories about his dad, and absolutely none of them were about the fact that his dad served with a fae. Fae hardly ever join the military, after all, since they say that human wars are beneath them, and even when they do, they usually end up in a fae-only unit, because, again, humans are beneath them. And Hart doesn’t seem to think any better of humans, judging by his answers to Eggsy’s questions.

“So before you was a tailor, were you in the army? Like an officer?”

“Not quite.”

Eggsy internally sighs. It’s a typical fae answer, which means it says everything and nothing without being a lie. Of course, if Hart wasn’t in the army, then the chances of Eggsy’s military dad running into him sink even lower.

“What were you then, a money guy? A gadget guy?”

“Neither, thankfully.”

Since Hart clearly isn’t going to answer on that front, Eggsy changes directions. Even if fae don’t like telling the truth, they don’t lie, so sometimes the best method for talking to them is to make a box and ask around it, and then figure out what they aren’t saying. “So where was you posted? Iraq or something?”

But that’s apparently at the end of Hart’s patience, because he says, “Sorry, Eggsy. Classified.”

He doesn’t sound at all sorry, of course. But that sorry could mean a lot of things – sorry to end this line of conversation, sorry to cut you off, sorry to have met you. It doesn’t have to mean sorry for leaving Eggsy high and dry and in the dark about the father he barely remembers.

Still, Hart has admitted he knew Eggsy’s dad. So he can’t dodge questions on that. “But my dad saved your life, yeah?”

“Yes,” Hart says softly. 

It makes the hairs on the back of Eggsy’s neck stand up. This isn’t the kind of softly that means gentleness or quietness. This is the kind of softly that means eagles diving through the air, cats prowling through the night, polar bears waiting at the edge of ice holes. This is a predator acknowledging a weak spot, but baring sharp teeth so that the prey don’t get any ideas.

Hart nods to the medal Eggsy has faithfully carried for most of his life. “And I gave that medal to your family as a token of the favor that action earned. I am a fae, and we do not take favors lightly. Which is why I’m sure your father would be bitterly disappointed in how you’ve chosen to spend it.”

And here comes the judgement. “You can’t talk to me like that!”

Hart pushes onwards, ignoring him, which just is icing on the cake, really. “Huge IQ, great performance at primary school. Then it all went tits up. Drugs, petty crime, never had a job.”

“I – ”

“You had excellent prospects for your hobbies, which might explain the lack of a job, but you gave those up too. First prize, regional under tens’ gymnastics two years in a row. Your coach had you pegged as Olympic team material.”

“My step-dad – ”

“Wasn’t part of the Marines, and yet, what happened? You were halfway through training, doing brilliantly, but you gave up.”

He throws out each accusation so casually, like it didn’t burn a hole in Eggsy’s heart to stop doing his homework, to stop attending gymnastics, to stop basic training. Like he hadn’t wanted each of those things with all of his heart. Like he hadn’t cried each night into his bed after ditching them, but quietly, because he couldn’t let anyone know. 

But of course Hart doesn’t know. He wasn’t there. Anyone who wasn’t there doesn’t get the right to judge.

“Because my mum went mental!” Eggsy snaps, cutting off whatever latest insult Hart is about to spit out. “Banging on about losing me as well as my dad. Didn’t want me being cannon fodder for snobs and insects like you! All you do lot do is sit there judging people like me from your ivory towers and fluffy clouds, with no thought about why we do what we do! We ain’t got much choice, you get me? And if we was born with the same silver spoon up our arses and wings out of our backs, we’d do just as well as you, if not better.”

Hart is silent for a long moment after Eggsy’s impromptu speech. He doesn’t seem offended, exactly, but his wings are certainly shifting behind his back and there is some strange emotion in his eyes. If anything, he seems slightly amused.

Whatever it is, the emotion vanishes when there’s a loud shout from the doorway.

As Rottie and his gang swagger over, Eggsy curses under his breath. He’d been tempted to choose somewhere else to have it out with Hart, but this had been the closest, and Hart marched in like he owned the joint without waiting to see what Eggsy thought. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, just like every other decision in Eggsy’s life.

“Some more examples of young men who simply need a silver suppository and wings?” Hart asks, voice just this shade of sarcastic.

“They can’t be any worse as fae,” Eggsy grumbles. “Come on, let’s bounce.”

Hart raises one eyebrow at that. Clearly he’s a little surprised that the man who’d been spoiling for a fight with him five seconds ago now wants to avoid a fight. Although he says, “Nonsense, we haven’t finished our drinks” like this is some sort of fancy hotel that doesn’t do take-away.

And by the time Eggsy makes to respond, Rottie is on them. He’s all swagger and talk, really; Eggsy’s main concern is his gang of thugs. He can only fight so many of them.

He can tell they’re a little hesitant to take on Hart, though. Older he may be, but any fae could overpower a human easily. Their magic used to level entire battlefields; what’s one gang of probably drunk or high men? But as funny as it would be to watch Hart bowl them over with magic, Eggsy really doesn’t want to be blamed for yet more problems, because there’s no way the coppers are going to look at Hart and blame him when Eggsy’s around. So when Rottie tells Hart to leave, Eggsy echoes it. 

He’s almost in the clear, too, when Poodle gains a spine from seeing a fae turn and walk away and shouts, “If you’re looking for another rent boy, they’re on the corner of Smith’s Street.”

And Eggsy groans because there are two things fae abhor: lies and rudeness.

Like any fae that looks like Hart would ever need a rent boy. He probably has women falling at his feet to be on the arm of a fae with money and power. 

Sure enough, Hart stops, tilts his head to the side, and sighs.

“I’m doomed,” Eggsy mutters.

* * *

Less than five minutes later, Eggsy is still doomed, but in a completely different way. He’d expected Hart to use magic or to call on other, lesser fae to mess them up or even to just curse them and flounce off, but no. Nope. That’s not good enough for Harry goddamn Hart.

No, Hart beats the piss out of them _with his bare hands_.

And then he curses the barman, because why not.

By the time Hart slowly walks back over, sits down, and gulps down the rest of his drink, Eggsy is already seeing the prison bars close in front of his eyes. 

“Sorry about that. Needed to let off a little steam. Heard yesterday a friend of mine died. He knew your father too, actually.”

Eggsy is really, really tempted to ask what the hell that has to do with beating up every guy in a three foot radius, but he also wants to get out of here alive, so he keeps his mouth shut. He has a feeling Hart is rather done with humanity in general.

“Now then,” Hart says, standing and raising his wrist, his eyes glowing gold with fae magic, “I do apologize, Eggsy. I shouldn’t have done this in front of you – ”

Eggsy’s got his hands up before he can even blink. Fae magic is powerful because the fae are powerful, but it’s also strong because no one really knows the true extent of what they can do. Fae tend to wipe memories, or at least blur them, and the last thing Eggsy wants is for the coppers to show up and for Eggsy to have zero memory of what happened, because then he’ll definitely be going away forever.

“No, please. I won’t say nothing, I swear. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s keep my mouth shut.”

“You won’t tell a soul?”

“Ask the feds,” Eggsy says desperately, because anyone who could arrange for his release and knows so much about his past life likely knows about his police record as well, “I’ve never grassed anyone up.”

A gleam enters Hart’s eyes, and he cocks his head to the side. “Is that a bargain?” he asks, and there’s that soft power in the question again, a predator circling and circling and circling, getting ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness. It would be unsettling if Eggsy had time to actually worry about it.

“Yes! On my life, I swear I won’t say nothing!”

For a long moment, Hart just stands there in silence, head tilted in consideration, like he’s trying to figure out what tie to wear for the day instead of whether or not to cock up Eggsy’s mind and memories.

Then Hart abruptly lowers his arm, and sound rushes back into Eggsy’s ears as the magic fades away from Hart’s eyes.

“A favor curried, and a favor spent,” Hart says, each word spoken as solemnly as a wedding vow. “Lovely to strike that bargain with you, Eggsy. I do hope you keep it. And, of course, best of luck with everything.”

 _What the actual goddamn hell,_ Eggsy wonders after Hart saunters out.

Then he books it, because he really doesn’t want to be here with the gang wakes up or the coppers arrive.

* * *

Dean is as pleasant as he ever is, although the knife is definitely new. Eggsy pictures about five different ways to drop him and disembowel him, and he’s had a bad enough day to seriously consider it – if not for the fact that Daisy is crying in the corner and his mum is crying in front of him. So he plays along, acts dumb, and yells what Dean wants to hear, and hopes that it all ends soon.

Therefore, the last thing he expects is to hear Hart’s voice, echoing in the air like the fae had teleported into Eggsy’s crappy home.

“If I were you, I’d release the boy,” Hart says coolly. “I think it would interest you greatly to know that I have enough evidence on your activities to have you locked up for the rest of your life, Mr. Dean Anthony Baker.”

Dean splutters. It’s almost amusing, but for the fact that he still has the knife.

“The boy owes me a favor, and I haven’t yet collected. And you do not want to be the man who interferes with a member of the fae collecting a favor. So, I suggest you leave the boy alone, before I decide that in the best method to collect what is owed to me is deliver my information to the appropriate authorities.”

Eggsy has no idea what the hell kind of favor he could possibly owe Hart, but he’s not one to let an opportunity slip away. By the time Hart is telling him where to meet, Eggsy’s already halfway out the door.

* * *

Eggsy spends a lot of time debating as he wanders to Hart’s tailor shop. He makes sure to take a winding route, ensuring that anyone who might be on his trail is thoroughly lost, because the last thing he needs is for Hart to throw down with his father’s thugs not once but twice. He’s not really sure he wants to go to Hart, after all, because if there’s one thing he knows it’s that fae – even though they can’t lie – aren’t to be trusted. 

But Hart also might be the only way to solve this problem. 

Fae are bound by human laws, but only in the most general sense. It’s really hard to imprison them, since cold iron isn’t exactly abundant, and most times the Summer or Winter Court sweeps in to “take custody” and the fae in question is never seen again. If a bloke turns up dead after an argument with a fae, though, most coppers won’t investigate too hard. Especially if the fae is rich.

The tailor shop, when he reaches it, just screams rich and fae. It’s old and has fancy suits in the window that Eggsy bets cost more than most people make a year. 

Hart is sitting inside, sipping from a glass, because of course he is.

Eggsy pushes the door open. There are no locks, because this is a fae establishment and spells guard it, and sure enough an enchantment washes over Eggsy, like a splash of lukewarm water, although it retreats when it reaches the medal on his chest.

Hart looks unbearably smug.

“I’ve never met a tailor before. But I know you ain’t one.”

Hart shrugs. “A being can be a tailor and still be much, much more,” he says easily. He takes another sip. “Did your stepfather hurt you?”

“Shouldn’t you know? Didn’t you put something on me? Some kind of tracking spell?”

Hart’s wings expand outwards, as if they’re an extra set of legs for balance, as Hart stands up. He still has that predator’s air of danger, but it’s much more muted now – probably because Hart has removed his tie. He reaches out, ignoring Eggsy’s flinch, and comes away with a tiny black dot from Eggsy’s shoulder clutched in a piece of fabric.

“Just an audio bug,” Hart says cheerfully. “I leave tracking spells to the professionals. This is technomagic.”

Eggsy squints at it. It looks impossibly small for something that could carry perfect audio both ways over such a long distance. “I thought most technomagic worked best with cold iron, and you lot couldn’t touch it.”

“That’s correct,” Hart says after a moment, as if he’s a little surprised Eggsy knows about technomagic. Like it wasn’t one of his intro classes in the Marines, because every military wants to utilize technomagic or at least know how to neutralize it. “This particular prototype has a regular metal skin on it, if you will, and it discharges that skin once it is activated to adhere to the nearest surface. This allows me to handle it without harm. Although retrieving it is a different story.”

Eggsy eyes him. That definitely sounds like something no tailor should have. “You sure you ain’t military?”

“Most assuredly not.”

The answer comes too quickly to be some sort of roundabout lie. Hart is downright insulted by the implication that he could be defined as pedestrian as belonging to the military. So he’s something else then.

Of course, Eggsy received a lot of attention when he was in basic, and not all of it was just from his direct commanders. 

“You some sort of spy then?”

Hart puts his hands in his pockets and smiles, far too wide so that all of his teeth gleam in the low light. “What if I was?”

“Should you be telling me that?”

“Didn’t you bargain with me not to tell a soul?”

Well, there is that. Eggsy’s seen the results of when a fae goes after a human for a broken bargain. It usually is pretty gruesome. Or the bloke is just never heard from or seen again.

But Eggsy’s not here to rehash old news. “What if I wanted to make a new bargain?” Eggsy asks.

Hart cocks his head. His face doesn’t change at all, but Eggsy can feel the way his eyes sharpen as they focus on Eggsy like a predator pricking up its ears. “That would depend entirely upon what you ask for,” he says breezily, like he didn’t beat up Rottie and Poddle and the lot for the fun of it only a few hours earlier.

Eggsy takes a deep breath. “Can you get rid of Dean?”

“Your stepfather?”

“Did your background check turn up any other Dean in my life? Yeah, my stepdad. The one who gave my mum a black eye and nearly hit Daisy with the knife he was leveling at me.”

Hart hums. “Theoretically, yes, I certainly could. But what could you offer me?”

“I have a favor – ”

“You _had_ a favor,” Hart interrupts. “That medal was the indication of your favor, and I’m afraid you already spent it to get out of prison. I don’t do things for free, Eggsy. I am a fae, and we deal in favors and bargains struck. What will you offer me in exchange for this action?”

The answer comes out before Eggsy can stop it. “Anything.”

Because, really, Eggsy would give anything to get Dean out of their life. He’s already done everything he possibly could – dropped out of school to get an under the table job, dropped out of gymnastics to pick pockets, dropped out of the Marines to run drugs. Whenever Dean gets angry, Eggsy puts himself between Dean’s fists and his mum or Daisy. Half the time he’s the one feeding Daisy or putting her to sleep or bathing her anyways. And it’s exhausting, but Eggsy would do all of it to keep them safe.

He can’t do it forever, and the knowledge burns, but it’s the truth. Dean’s threatened Eggsy with a lot of things, but the knife is new. And sooner or later his mum’s going to have a knife wound instead of a black eye.

Hart looks at him – really looks at him – and goes completely still. “And you mean it,” Hart murmurs. “How interesting.”

“How about you tell me if you’re gonna do it, and get all high and mighty about it later?”

That seems to break the spell. Hart nods, swiftly and sharply like an executioner’s axe, and he takes his hands out of his pockets. Now he seems completely removed from the predator who’d been waiting to see how much he could steal; now he seems like a businessman, waiting to break out the contract and ink made out of blood.

“I will grant you this favor,” Hart announces, every word wrought with power. “And in return, I will ask you a favor of equal value.”

“If you want me to off someone, wouldn’t be better off doing it yourself?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I don’t need an assassin. That’s the favor you need, my dear. I need something a little less grotesque, though no less bloody.”

“Which is?” Eggsy asks warily.

“I happen to be in need,” Hart says, “of an assistant.”

* * *

Hart turns out to be one hundred percent serious, so after Eggsy stares at him a little more, they go off towards Hart’s house. It’s a very nice house, and Eggsy has to restrain himself from eyeing everything in it, because just within one minute of walking in the doorway he sees a lot of little things he could nick that could feed them for weeks. Hart, however, seems unbothered about the idea of letting a thief into his house, and just keeps walking until he reaches the stairs.

“Come along, Eggsy. There are some things that must be signed before you become my assistant.”

Eggsy shuts the door, slips off his shoes, and follows. For Daisy, sweet little innocent Daisy, Eggsy is more than willing to fetch the dry cleaning or mop the floors or whatever other little chores rich people pay other people to do.

Hart has a very nice office, if a little sparse. It’s pretty much a desk, a computer, a telephone, two chairs, and a stool. And a crap ton of newspaper covers.

“You want me to polish your collection?” Eggsy asks, boggling at all the strange headlines.

“Most assuredly not.” Hart straightens from where he’d been bent over a drawer, and he produces a contract and a pen. “This is a non-disclosure agreement. I need you to read it and sign at the end.”

“Magic ain’t enough?”

“In the Court, your word would be enough. But we are in the human world, and I am not one to leave loopholes. Sign it, Eggsy. This is part of the bargain.”

There’s nothing too weird in the contract – it’s the standard sort of agreement that means anything Eggsy sees, hears, touches, smells, or tastes can’t leave Hart’s house – so Eggsy flips to the end, takes up the pen, and scribbles a signature. The pen is even a regular one with regular black ink, nothing special, and the contract doesn’t do anything magical like glow or disappear once he does.

“Thank you.” 

Hart takes the contract and sets it aside, resting the pen carefully on top. Then he opens another drawer and takes out a quill, blood red from its point to the end of its rather large feather.

“Do you know,” Hart asks carefully, “what this is?”

Eggsy sees no point in lying. “No.”

“This is a bonding quill. In the old days, we used knives or thorns, but nowadays we’re a little more civilized. This will draw upon the blood of whomever holds it and whomever it is held against to form an unbreakable seal.”

And, well, Eggsy has heard of that. “You mean like a collar?”

“That is an inaccurate – ”

“A bond, a collar, one and the same,” Eggsy interrupts. “When the fae used to command obedience from their _pets_. That’s what you want from me?”

Hart seems more annoyed by the interruption than the simplification of a centuries long practice. But he doesn’t stand down or become insulted. He just meets Eggsy’s eyes calmly and unflinchingly, as though he’s discussing something as simple as a contract when really he’s talking about an bonding process used by the fae to take human pets who could not disobey, leave, or harm them. If Eggsy lets Hart draw on his neck, he’ll be bound to Hart until one of them dies, and if it’s hard to kill a fae, it’s even harder to kill a fae pet that a fae is invested in and is willing to pour healing magic into. And Hart doesn’t strike Eggsy as the type to just let his pets die.

Hart sighs. “I want a companion, an assistant, a valet. Someone to help me in ways most can’t or aren’t willing to. And I would require your absolute loyalty, Eggsy. You humans make non-disclosure agreements and promises. We swear blood oaths and forge bonds.” He leans back in his chair. “You can still refuse. I won’t stop you if you leave, or report you to the police. It’s your choice.”

On the one hand, Eggsy would be sacrificing his free will to a _fae_ who could order him to do anything from scrub a toilet to cut off his own leg. 

On the other hand: Daisy. His mum. His family.

“If it helps,” Hart adds quietly, “I can set the terms of the bonding. It will break on the day Miss Daisy comes of age, or on the day that I die. Would that be acceptable?”

Eggsy was already incredibly tempted, but to learn that he could be free when Daisy turns 18? That’s even better.

But first: “But you’ll take care of Dean either way?”

“Yes. I can’t promise you won’t come to harm under my care, but no harm will come from me or those loyal to me. Pet is the word humans chose – we called them companions, and considered them a part of our families. I will offer you protection, power, and sanctuary, and you will offer me loyalty, obedience, and assistance. And in return, I shall grant you the favor of dealing with your stepfather, Dean Anthony Baker, so that he never bothers you, your mother, your sister, or your family ever again. Do we have a bargain, Eggsy?”

Eggsy takes a deep breath. It’ll be his last as a free human, and he treasures it. But Daisy’s worth it, and fae don’t lie, so Hart will set him free one day. 

_For Daisy,_ Eggsy thinks. “Yes. We do.”

Hart stands up. “Then please take a seat on the stool. I will need access to your neck.”

All Eggsy does is lower the hood of his sweater, but he still feels raw and naked in front of Hart, and his enormous blue wings don’t help matters. But Eggsy learned a long time ago not to show fear, even when it consumed every fiber of his being, and so he stays perfectly still as Hart comes closer with the quill in his hand.

He sets the tip against Eggsy’s throat. “I am told it hurts. If you need to scream, please do so. Just be aware that once I begin, I cannot stop until this process is complete. To halt it midway would have . . . unpleasant results.”

Eggsy screws his eyes shut. “Just get it over with,” he says.

“Very well. Be still, Eggsy.”

Hart draws the first line on Eggsy’s throat, just underneath his chin, and Eggsy immediately learns that Hart was definitely understating it. It doesn’t just hurt, it _burns_ , like someone is pulling out his insides through his skin, and even after the quill moves on, the lines Hart drew remain pulsing with pain like salt’s been thrown on them. And Hart doesn’t just draw a circle with one line; no, he’s doing some kind of pattern, repeated little whirls and loops as he slowly makes his way around Eggsy’s neck, until he feels rather like his head falling off would be less painful than the quill’s marks.

The world starts to get blurry, and the sound of Hart muttering to himself is drowned out by a low roar. The pain gets stronger and stronger and stronger, until finally Eggsy thinks he can’t take it anymore.

“One last symbol,” Hart murmurs, at once too loud and too soft, and he returns the quill to the front of Eggsy’s throat again.

It’s the last thing Eggsy remembers before he passes out.

* * *

Harry looks down at his armful of unconscious human boy, and sighs. Eggsy had in truth lasted far longer than Harry had expected. He of course hasn’t watched many ceremonies, but usually the humans tended to pass out at the halfway mark. Eggsy lasted all the way until the very end, when Harry engraved the Kingsman symbol to complete the bond.

Now the collar glows against Eggsy’s neck, a gentle glow to supernatural eyes and completely invisible to human eyes. Each collar is unique to the fae who draws it – Harry’s style is apparently butterflies and flowers, repeating one after another to encircle Eggsy’s neck.

Now Eggsy is bound to him, unable to disobey him, unable to hurt him, and unable to leave him.

Of course, it has other benefits as well. Eggsy can’t be harmed without Harry knowing, and he can heal Eggsy or shield him if necessary.

Harry carries his new pet to a guest bedroom. Eggsy doesn’t stir when Harry slips off his shoes and pulls the covers up, and that’s probably for the best. The pain will be gone by the time he awakens anyways. 

Harry watches him sleep, watches his chest rise and fall, watches the collar shift as his skin moves. Such a powerful thing for such a small price.

If Harry had been a better man, he would have taken Eggsy to the mirror and the elevator, and he would have stood behind him in the mirror, and he would have asked him what he saw. He would have inducted Eggsy into Kingsman, he would have offered him a place to train as a knight, he would have seen him take the place his father nearly earned.

But Harry is not a better man. Harry is a fae, and no fae will do such a thing without a favor, and Eggsy spent the only favor he had when he got out of prison.

So Harry will have Eggsy as his pet instead, and take all the blessings and fights that are sure to follow.

He leaves the room and returns to his workroom. There he implements the order to have the information collected on Dean Anthony Baker transferred to the proper authorities, as well as to begin the process of searching for a suitable place to install Eggsy’s mother and sister. Kingsman moves quickly; Eggsy might not even awaken before everything is all set.

Then Harry sets his finger to a special pad underneath his desk, and waits until a hidden drawer reveals itself in the wall. There’s a gun there, one meant for top-level emergencies, because it is made with technomagic – cold iron, carefully harvested and painstakingly forged, and laden with magic. Formerly, Harry couldn’t have touched it without his skin burning off, as even gloves would only protect him for so long.

Now, though . . . Now Harry picks it up, and chambers a round, and sights down the barrel, and he feels nothing at all, not even the faintest warning tingle of being near that which can kill his kind dead.

And Harry smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Next up is Eggsy exploring Kingsman HQ.


	2. a favor exchanged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry lets Eggsy in on the secrets of Kingsman.

When Eggsy wakes up, he is sore all over, like he’d just run a marathon. Or three. Pushing aside the blankets is like trying to push an entire car with one hand; standing up takes an age and a half, and his legs are trembling so hard he has to balance himself against the wall and shuffle like an old man inch by inch round his room. 

Thankfully, the door is not locked and swings open at a touch, so Eggsy is free to meander very, very slowly down the corridor, step by step. It’s surprisingly barren for a guy as rich as Hart; Eggsy can only spot a few knick knacks he’d be able to steal. 

Mostly there’s just a _lot_ of butterflies. Creepy dead butterflies.

Hart is waiting at the bottom of the stairs when Eggsy reaches it, still in a fancy get up, but this time with an equally fancy apron over the top. His expression wants to be solicitous, but it falls short and ends up somewhere along the lines of constipated. Even his wings are shifting behind his back, no longer prim and proper and controlled like they were before. 

Eggsy eyes the staircase and wonders just how much of a lecture he’ll get for going down on his bum.

“Good morning,” Hart says abruptly. “I apologize, but I just stepped away to make breakfast. I’ve been told that companions often need food after a ceremony.”

Eggsy pauses with one foot hovering over the edge. “What do you mean, you just stepped away?”

The shifty expression Hart adopts does not help matters at all,

“Did you watch me like a creeper all night long?” Eggsy demands.

“Some humans have a bad reaction – ”

“You can be allergic to magic?”

Hart’s mouth thins, either because Eggsy keeps interrupting him or because the terminology is imprecise. Either way, it makes Eggsy happy. The stories about fae pets and slaves aren’t exactly very precise about what enthrallment consists of, after all. He’d been half afraid he’d wake up unable to do anything that might make Hart angry. 

“No weakling can bear a collar,” Hart says after a moment. “It takes immense force of will for a mortal to bear the magic and not crumble. But some people are better suited to magic than others. Even among my kind.” He pauses. “Are you going to stand there all day?”

“You’re the one who said I had an immense force of will.”

“And yet, you’re the one who looks ready to crumble.”

Eggsy gives up and slides to the ground. Sitting down and letting his shaking legs rest is a relief Eggsy hasn’t felt since the first days of basic training. He doesn’t even realize that he’s closed his eyes until he hears Hart clearing his throat from the bottom of the stairs. Hart even has the gall to look _amused_ about the whole affair when it’s his fault Eggsy is as weak as a newborn kitten.

Thankfully, at that moment, Eggsy’s stomach rumbles. “You just gonna let breakfast burn?”

“You are aware that I can use magic, yes?” Hart replies, but then he turns and walks away so that Eggsy can shuffle himself down in peace.

Hart has a lot of stairs. 

By the time Eggsy reaches the kitchen, he’s sore, trembling, and sweaty. He imagines he isn’t a pretty sight at all, but Hart flicks a finger and a chair scoots out obligingly for Eggsy as though a servant had leapt to pull it out for him. As he sits, a napkin drifts over and arranges itself neatly on his lap, and forks and knives and spoons march across the tabletop to lay down on opposite sides of his plate. The table itself is piled high with food, almost everything Eggsy’s ever had or wanted for breakfast, and whatever Hart is frying on the stove smells even better.

“You uh. You conjure all this with magic?”

“I can cook.”

Eggsy thinks of the fae he’s seen, so haughty they’d turn their noses up at restaurants or make disparaging comments about having to endure human food. “I thought your kind preferred not to eat human garbage.”

“If you’re referring to fast food, then, yes, I prefer not to eat such garbage. But just as there are ingredients in the fae world that cannot be found or replicated here, so too there are ingredients in the human world that cannot be found or replicated there. We have, for example, no equivalent to eggs,” Hart explains, turning around to reveal that the delicious thing he’s cooking is a heap of fluffy eggs. He leans over to transfer some onto Eggsy’s plate, which is when he notices something interesting.

“That pan has cold iron in it,” Eggsy says cautiously.

It’s not like Hart lacks the funds for gloves, or for normal pans, or even for fae cooking instruments, even though Eggsy has no idea what the fae might use to cook with. He does, however, have a very good idea of what happens to a fae who touches cold iron.

Hart merely says, “I am aware, thank you.” And then he carries on plating eggs.

Finally, after Hart finishes plating and sets the pan aside, he shucks the apron and folds it haphazardly. Eggsy, who is by this point starving and drooling, is definitely ready for him to sit down so they can both eat, but instead Hart heads towards the doorway instead, disappearing into the sitting room like it’s normal.

Eggsy has exactly two seconds to gape at his exit before he returns with a handheld mirror. Hart lays it cautiously on the table next to Eggsy’s trio of forks like it’s a grenade.

“I am told,” Hart says, each word pronounced as slowly as if he was talking to a toddler, “that companions like to see the . . . result. As it were.”

Which is when Eggsy remembers that, oh yeah, Hart took a quill to his neck and inked a collar on him with magic.

Eggsy snatches up the mirror. His heart is racing so hard that for a moment he sees nothing but blurry lines and he almost squawks in outrage that Hart would draw on him knowing he was a crappy artist before he realizes that the lines aren’t blurry – his hand is just shaking that much. Eggsy takes a deep breath and steadies himself, and the image comes into focus in the reflection.

And, well. It’s not _terrible_. 

It’s a repeating pattern of a flower with six petals and a butterfly with outstretched wings, chained together to encircle his entire neck. At the front, on top of Eggsy’s throat like a pendant, is a circle with two lines, one that dips in the middle like a curved “v” and a straight line that runs through the bottom half and touches the dip. It’s nothing Eggsy would choose for himself, but it isn’t something that makes him want to immediately zip his hoodie up close to his throat. 

It is also faintly glowing.

When Eggsy looks up, Hart’s eyes on focused on him, eagle-sharp. It’s like a predator on the hunt, yet Eggsy can’t tell what he’s looking for. Maybe for Eggsy to have a panic attack.

He clears his throat. “Does it always glow?”

“Yes and no. To any of my kind, or one of the humans blessed with the sight, it will be readily apparent. To a typical human, though, it might appear as nothing more than a mildly interesting tattoo. If they even notice it.”

Eggsy very carefully sets the mirror down. He doesn’t want to drop it, but he also wants it close at hand for the next few questions he’s going to ask. “So what does it do? You said it was magic.”

“It opens your eyes,” Hart answers easily, leaning back in his chair as his wings fold neatly together. “You can see many things that no human would be able to, as well as walk many places no human would be able to.”

“And at your command, no less?”

“If I wanted a carpet, I’d simply purchase one.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Who says I want anything? I told you I wanted a valet. I’ve heard humans are good at that.”

“Do the duties of the valet include cleaning out your house?”

A faint smile graces Hart’s face. It’s not gentle at all – Eggsy’s seen kinder smiles on war-hardened commanders – but it isn’t mocking either. It’s like a lion smiling as a cub sharpens its claws on a tree. “On occasion. I like saving my magic for useful things.”

“Even that safe you got on the second floor?”

Hart’s got a great poker face, Eggsy will give him that. He doesn’t even flinch, and his smile stays perfectly mild and harmless. He looks like a granddaddy pencil pusher, and Eggsy would even buy it if he hadn’t watched the guy decimate Rottie’s gang with nothing more than a brolly and his own two hands. 

“What makes you think I have a safe?”

Eggsy rolls his eyes. “I case joints for a living, Hart. The number of steps in your hallway definitely does not match the number of steps in your office and bedroom. And the wall’s thicker in some places than others. I should know, I had to count each and every step and hold the wall all the way down to make sure I didn’t fall.”

Hart’s wings spread apart, fluttering almost lazily, but his eyes are gleaming. He’s pleased again, god knows why. 

“A very astute observation,” Hart says. “There is a safe on the second floor. And the first. More than one, to be honest. I’m curious if you’ll be able to find them all.”

“You ain’t worried I’m gonna rob you? Or spill your secrets?”

“You’re mine now, Eggsy,” Hart chides. “My secrets are yours. Not just because of that agreement you signed, but because of my bond around your neck. The things I tell you can’t be spilled. Even if someone tortured you, so long as my bond held, my secrets and yours would be safe until the end of time.”

Eggsy really wants to ask him why torture is the first thing that came into his mind instead of, oh, social media or gossip, but Hart continues speaking.

“That’s why it’s important for you to know that I’m a Kingsman agent.”

Dumbly, Eggsy asks, “Like a spy?”

“Of sorts.”

“ . . . You’re having me on, aren’t you?”

By way of answer, Hart leans over and presses his finger against the mirror’s reflective surface. There’s nothing discernably special about the placement of his finger, but after a second, there’s a faint flicker of green light, and text begins appearing on the surface like it’s a computer screen instead of a mirror.

“Oh my god, you’re a spy,” Eggsy says faintly.

* * *

After that enlightening breakfast, Hart – “Please call me Harry; I am not your owner, and we are certainly not unacquainted” – takes him upstairs to his office, where one entire wall slides back to reveal an armory big enough to comfortably take down a city block. The weapons are varied, ranging from small and unobtrusive to brute force and unmistakable, but Eggsy does spot a small cache on the side that are most definitely cold iron.

“Okay, first the pan and now this. What’s with you and the cold iron? I thought fae hated being near that stuff. You got a death wish?”

It’s probably a dumb question to ask a spy, but Harry seems to take it in the spirit it was asked.

“You asked why I wanted a companion,” Harry says and then he proceeds to pick up the cold iron gun barehanded.

Eggsy braces himself for a nasty reaction – the hiss of fae skin meeting cold iron metal, the stink of burning flesh, the white-hot angry glow of cursed iron – but surprisingly, nothing at all happens. Harry just continues standing there, muzzle aimed towards the floor, completely unaffected.

Eggsy looks from Harry to the gun and then back to Harry. 

“The bond between a companion and a fae is a two way street, if you will,” Harry explains. “I can protect you by lending you the strength and healing of a fae. You can protect me by lending me the immunity to cold iron of a human.”

Put that way, Eggsy understands why Harry would want a valet. There have been several revolutions against the fae, and with a weakness as widely known as cold iron, squashing them has been a long and tiring endeavor. Most fae don’t even bother anymore and live solely within the realm of the Court. But for those who choose to live in the human world, and especially those who choose to be a spy, Eggsy can see why being immune to cold iron would be desired. Cold iron isn’t exactly standard for most military weapons, but it’s definitely standard for high level buildings.

That being said, the gun Harry is holding does not look like a standard military weapon.

“You gonna give me a tutorial, spy man, or should I just start nicking stuff to find out what it is?”

“Please do not. I only have a limited supply here. The majority of our stock is at the shop.”

“What shop?” A lightbulb goes off when Harry makes another face. “You mean the _tailor shop_?”

“Of course. Why do you think I said I was a Kingsman agent?”

* * *

Fortunately, Harry does not insist that Eggsy change before they head off the shop. Unfortunately, he does not because he says that they can have a proper valet suit made at the shop.

Eggsy vows to wriggle out of that by any means necessary and scarpers after Harry down the street.

After a few moments of watching Harry’s classy as hell neighbors giving them weird side looks for a man dressed in a suit like Harry and a man dressed in a hoodie like Eggsy walking side by side, Eggsy clears his throat and ventures, “So you gonna teach me to talk fancy and all that? Like in My Fair Lady?”

Harry gives him a Look. It’s mostly unamused, but Eggsy can feel the faint sensation of surprise as well through their bond, like a soft vibration. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises,” he remarks. “But no.”

“I thought you wanted me to a gentleman valet,” Eggsy says.

“I wanted a companion to assist me, and for that you need only the clothes and manners and the knowledge. Being a gentleman has nothing to do with one’s accent, Eggsy. It’s about being at ease in one’s own skin. As Hemingway said, ‘There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man. True nobility is being superior to your former self.’ And as you said when we first met, given the right supplies, you could do just as well as him. Or better.”

Coming from anyone else, it might have been mocking or taunting. But Harry’s voice is quiet and calm and contemplative, as if he’s reciting an obvious fact. He believes it.

“Didn’t know you were a Hemingway fan,” Eggsy mumbles, scuffing his shoes in the pavement as they wait to cross the road. Better to look at dully grave pavement than to look up and reveal his heated cheeks. He truly hadn’t expected Harry to be paying attention when he’d yelled at him in the bar. “Would’ve thought you lot had your own poets.”

“Who said Hemingway wasn’t one of ‘my lot’?”

Eggsy has to scramble to catch up to Harry after that.

When they reach the shop, the only thing Eggsy can say is “Wow”. Beforehand, the shop had been beautiful already, in the kind of old timey building with sleek lines and tastefully chosen colors and well arrayed samples in windows. Now, with his eyes opened by Harry’s magic, Eggsy can see the full extent of the shop, and it’s gorgeous. There’s magic that makes the entire front just subtly glow, like a sunbeam through fog, and magic that makes the windows gleam with intricate tailoring patterns that dance across the panes, and magic that makes the logo march across the top in an endless line.

Harry has a soft smile on his face when Eggsy finally is able to tear his face away. “Your father had much the same look upon his face when Kingsman opened his eyes to magic.” He pauses. “And so did I.”

The shop is empty save for one man at the till, which is a good thing because no one is around to see Eggsy’s expression until he regains control of himself. His mum never really talked about his dad before Dean, never mind after; it’s like a shock of cold water to hear someone drop his dad into conversation. 

Harry, of course, has already strode forward like the shop is his home and is greeting the tailor. “Good morning, Dagonet.”

“Good morning, Galahad,” Dagonet says. When his eyes fall upon Eggsy, it’s a strange sensation to realize he’s staring at Eggsy’s neck rather than his worn out shoes or his hoodie. “I see you’ve found a companion.”

“Yes, I have. Dagonet, this is Eggsy Unwin. Eggsy, this is Dagonet, our head tailor.”

Dagonet actually genuinely smiles when he shakes Eggsy’s hand, and it’s a really nice feeling. Usually Eggsy only gets that kind of reaction when he’s putting on a front. Or a distraction.

“Are you here to get a suit?” Dagonet asks kindly.

Eggsy looks wildly at Harry. “Um – ”

“Yes. Take it out of my account,” Harry directs Dagonet. “The first thing every gentleman needs, Eggsy, is a good suit. By which I mean, a bespoke suit. Never off the peg. And Kingsman suits are always bulletproof. So let’s get you measured, and then, after your time with me is done, you’ll have a lasting and useful memento.”

So saying, he heads off towards a fitting room. Eggsy waves a hasty good bye at Dagonet and rushes to follow.

“I thought we were here to show me an armory,” Eggsy says under his breath.

Harry smiles enigmatically. “Were we? Up onto the platform, please.”

* * *

One tortuously long fitting session later, filled with more needles and measuring tape and squares of fabric than Eggsy’s ever seen in his life, Harry finally declares himself satisfied and Dagonet heads out with an entire folder filled with notes and fabric squares and measurements. Harry occupies himself with tidying while Eggsy scrambles back into his clothes, relieved to be back into comfortable clothing again.

“I can’t believe you lot are actually tailors,” Eggsy grumbles.

“We were tailors before we were spies,” Harry says. “Kingsman Tailors clothed the world’s most powerful individuals, and we were richly rewarded for it. However, by 1919, a great number of them had lost their heirs to World War I. That meant a lot of money going un-inherited, and a lot of powerful men with a desire to preserve peace and protect life. Our founders realized that they could channel that wealth and influence for the greater good.”

Eggsy slips one shoe on, hopping to get the other one on before Harry tries to get him into proper foot attire as well. He’s had enough of fittings for today. “By making a bunch of spies?”

“By making,” Harry corrects mildly, “an independent, international intelligence agency operating at the highest level of discretion, and above the politics and bureaucracy that undermine the integrity of government-run spy organizations.”

“Did they run around in armor with horses too?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Armor is quite heavy and noticeable. The suit is a modern gentleman’s armor, and the Kingsman agents are, in turn, the new knights.”

Eggsy spreads his hands wide. The words sound rehearsed, almost like an elevator pitch, except it sure isn’t meant for Eggsy. “You don’t need to convince me, bruv. I’m not joining your organization.”

“Those who do not know history are doomed to repeat it,” Harry advises, almost on reflex, but then he sighs. “But point taken. You’ve already become one of us, so there is no need to go over the fine minutiae of our history. An overview shall suffice for now, and I can requisition a tablet or laptop for you to investigate our history when you have free time.”

“Wait. What? I’m not one of you?”

Harry turns slightly, inclining like he’s a prince ushering a princess into a ball. Behind him is a floor length mirror. Aside from being very big and perfectly polished and worth a lot of money, it isn’t anything special. Eggsy had used it to surreptitiously try to gauge exactly how many more outfits Harry and Dagonet had been planning to torture him with, but Harry had caught on in seconds and casually blocked his view.

“Come here, Eggsy,” Harry says when it becomes clear Eggsy won’t come closer.

Eggsy eyes it nervously. After seeing the way Harry’s office had unfolded into a minor armory, he’s a little nervous. “Is it gonna explode when I touch it?”

“We have grenades for that; why on earth would we use the mirror?” He then overrides Eggsy’s spluttered protest and tells him, “Place your hand on the glass. Anywhere. But make sure all five of your fingers are on the surface.”

“If this blows up and takes off my hand, you’d better use that fae magic and heal me.”

For a long moment, the mirror does nothing. It’s a little cold against his palm, actually, and the room is quite warm, so a little condensation forms, but nothing exciting.

Harry, of course, is smiling his little smirk, so Eggsy yanks his hand off, cheeks burning. 

“Was this all just a test?” Eggsy demands. “Simon Fae says for the clueless human who – HEY!”

By the time Eggsy is back on his feet, Harry is already launching into his spiel about the _elevator_ that is apparently built into one of the shop’s fitting rooms and is triggered by a handprint on a mirror. Eggsy’s handprint. Which is truly impressive given that Eggsy is pretty sure he’s never given it to Harry.

While conscious, anyways.

“Generally the elevator is much faster, but I restricted your access to the top speed,” Harry says courteously, like Eggsy’s stomach isn’t already in his mouth. They’re definitely descending faster than any elevator Eggsy’s ever been in. 

Eggsy stares at the walls, mouth wide open, as they continue to go down and down and down. The shop above becomes a faint pinprick of lights and specks of green paint, and yet Harry doesn’t seem at all ready to disembark. The air smells a little stale, but there’s definitely a breeze, which is encouraging. At least it’s proof that there is something else at the bottom and this isn’t a dead end for Harry to stash Eggsy’s body in for the rest of time.

When they finally come to a stop, there’s a . . . train.

“That’s a train,” Eggsy says blankly.

Harry, who is already half into the train, cranes his head around. “Well, do you have a better idea for an effective and quick transport system in and out of London?”

“We’re leaving London?!”

“Not if you keep dawdling. Please get on the train, Eggsy. I haven’t gotten around to giving you access to the train so in about two minutes you’re going to be stuck on the platform until I return to the shop.”

“What an oversight,” Eggsy mocks. 

Then he rushes to the train, because he is not about to be left at the bottom of a giant hole.

* * *

Harry has the closest seat to the door, mostly because when the train had started Eggsy had been thrown out of his seat and had had to scramble to recover it, but Eggsy is still out of the train first. Mostly this is to settle his loudly protesting stomach, but it is also because Eggsy catches a glimpse of something through the window and, knowing Harry’s track record for answering direct questions, he knows he’d get faster and more accurate answers by just looking.

“Wow,” Eggsy breathes, hands and nose pressed on the glass of the window like a toddler.

He feels more than sees Harry come up beside him. “The Kingsman fleet,” Harry says, voice low like he’s confessing a dark secret. “It is . . . quite a sight. I remember my first time disembarking the train to see the open hangar and all of the planes in front of me.”

 _Planes_ is, Eggsy feels, a bit of a vast understatement. Eggsy can see enough vehicles to equip an army, and good quality vehicles too. 

“If the zombie apocalypse comes, you guys are all set,” Eggsy says.

Harry clears his throat. “Your qualifications indicated some pilot training.”

“Yeah.”

Eggsy could go on of course – explain the feeling of freedom and weightlessness and breathless beauty high up in the air, with no one to complain about him or yell at him or wave knives in his face – but the words dry up in his throat. If Harry hadn’t wanted to give him train access, it’s very unlikely he’ll ever get to fly one of these gorgeous planes. And Eggsy’s long since learned the most valuable lesson of wanting and enjoying something: never discuss it in front of someone who can take it away from you.

“I’ll speak to Merlin about getting you access,” Harry says abruptly. “He’ll be thrilled to get a copilot to torture the new recruits.”

And there is a lot of things in that sentence that Eggsy could question, but what comes out is: “What kind of name is _Merlin_?”

* * *

Merlin is a tall bald man with glasses who looks at Harry, looks at Eggsy, crosses his arms, and then looks back at Harry. “Really?” he says, and Eggsy is about to bristle in offence when the man continues, “This is why you were late?”

Harry shrugs, one hand tucked into his pocket like he hasn’t a care in the world. “A ceremony takes time.”

Merlin scoffs. “You were always good at finding excuses.” Then he looks at Eggsy and says, “So you’re Gary Unwin, then. Quite a colorful background. Still good at driving cars?”

“Did you look me up?”

“You think we let anyone just wander into Kingsman? Of course I looked you up. I bet I know more about you than you do, actually. Now answer the question: still good at driving cars?”

“Only if you don’t want me to drive at granddaddy pace.”

“Don’t worry about that, laddie. Galahad over here likes things fast and furious, as it were,” Merlin sighs, as if it’s an eternal ongoing argument. Run along to the garage then, and someone’ll show you around. I’ve got things to discuss with Galahad.”

Eggsy hesitates. On one hand, he’s dying to see what kind of cars Kingsman has, seeing as Harry’s taxi was all tricked out. On the other hand, the gleam in Merlin’s eyes and the way he keeps tapping at his clipboard tells Eggsy that they’re going to be discussing things he might be equally interested in. “Super secret spy stuff?” he asks.

“If by that you mean how much Harry spends on butterflies, sure.”

Eggsy flees the premises.

* * *

Kingsman, as it turns out, does have a nicely tricked out fleet of cars. Most of them are black and can pass for a regular London cab, but the Kingsman mechanic, a friendly woman named Alice with grease under her fingernails and a thick braid over one shoulder, teaches him how to spot the differences. 

“Well, for one thing,” she says, “all the Kingsman cabs have a spot of magic in them, and not the general upkeep spells to stretch out the gas or grease the wheels; our spells are meant to deter tracking and protect against explosives. You can see them, can’t you?”

“Yeah,” Eggsy says dumbly, because that’s all he can say when faced with a fleet of vehicles whose axles and hoods gleam with the faint golden hue of magic. “That’s uh. Very bright.”

“It is now,” Alice allows. “As soon as they leave the garage though, a concealment spell activates. Makes the cabs unremarkable to those who can see magic.”

“What else can the spells do?”

Alice’s eyes light up, and they end up going down a spiral of the minutia of all the little spells crafted and laid on Kingsman cars. Some cars, for example, are meant for transport of extremely powerful or potentially explosive items, and so their frames are reinforced with the same spells that have kept Stonehenge upright over the centuries. Others are meant to transverse all manner of terrain, and so can withstand immense pressure, hold in oxygen, and even shift and mutate to take advantage of the environment. 

“But my favorite is still the regular old cab,” Alice remarks, patting gently at the hood of the nearest car. “Reliable, sturdy, and inconspicuous.” 

“Who does the spellcasting?”

Alice smiles and holds up her hand. When she brings her fingers together, Eggsy hears a set of faint pops, and then sparks begin to fly. He backs a step away on instinct, because every human knows the sound of fae magic.

“You aren’t, um . . .”

“A fae?” Alice shrugs. “Not full-blooded, no. Dad was human, mom was a fae who wanted to explore, stretch her wings, see mortal life. No one thought it was possible, so, no protection. Six months later, boom, baby me. I got the magic, but not the wings. And, of course, I’m nowhere near as powerful as a proper fae. But Kingsman doesn’t care as long as I produce the work.”

“How did Kingsman find you?”

“Same way they found you, I suspect.”

Eggsy tries to imagine more than one person with a dead dad or mum because of Kingsman. He supposes it isn’t out of the realm of possibility, but it seems a bit too horrifying to grasp. “I don’t think – ”

“Favor owed, favor spent, yeah?” Alice’s mouth quirks up when he nods reluctantly. “Kingsman is good at that. Granted, they’re mostly fae here, and the world of the fae runs on favors. They make a habit of finding – and helping – people who might end up useful to them. My father used to help engineer cold iron, so they made a point of watching him. I could’ve been a recruit, but, eh. I like it here better.”

Whatever she says next is lost on Eggsy. He feels the strangest sensation around his neck, like a warm furry puppy uncurling and rubbing its fur against his skin. When he looks down, he can see in the car mirror that the flower petals are shifting slightly, as though moved by an invisible wind.

Fortunately, Alice seems to understand. “You’re being called upon, I think,” she says, nodding at his neck.

Eggsy pulls his zipper up higher. It doesn’t hide the collar, of course; it’s far too high upon his neck, and he suspects anyone with magic can sense it. But he still feels the instinctive urge to conceal it from public view. “I’m uh. With Galahad,” he mumbles, because he doesn’t feel like explaining anything more.

“Yeah, I figured. Don’t worry, Eggsy. You’re hardly the only companion in Kingsman.”

“Because of cold iron?”

“Because of cold iron,” she confirms. “Best conductor for technomagic, and the agents need it.”

“Were you ever – ”

“Yeah. Once.”

Eggsy peers at her neck, but it appears completely bare, aside from a few soot marks. If he didn’t know, he would’ve guessed she was pure human, through and through, with no wings to signal her fae heritage and no collar upon her neck to indicate her as part of the fae world. She appears entirely . . . ordinary.

“What happened to your fae?”

For a moment, Alice is quiet. She puts her hand on her neck and rubs at it, almost like a habit long developed and hard to break. “He died,” she says softly, eyes on the ground. “Got trussed up with cold iron chains and dumped into the ocean. Even fae need to breathe, you know. He released me with his dying breath.” 

Alice takes a deep breath and looks him straight in the eye. Before, she had seemed confident and young; now, she seems old enough that Eggsy wonders if he’s misjudged her age by a lot more than a few years.

“Mind how you go, Eggsy,” she says. “Even fae can die.”

* * *

Harry and Eggsy fall into a routine, after that. Eggsy takes over the cooking and cleaning, mostly because Harry is capable of making tea and very fancy dishes but not much else, but also because watching Harry absentmindedly leave key pieces of Kingsman equipment all around the house is enough to drive Eggsy crazy. 

He gets to do cool spy stuff too, thankfully. Harry can work from home, but a lot of resources and important people who need to be talked to are at HQ, so Harry usually only does a few days at home a week. The rest of the days, he takes the train in to the mansion, and Eggsy tags along. Sometimes he gets to accompany Harry and sit in on briefings, and others time, like when the full Table gathers, Eggsy books it to avoid the stink eye of all of the snobby old men. Those times, he seeks refuge either with Alice, who is more than happy to let him test drive or repair stuff, or with Merlin, who side eyes him a lot but seems to have enough trust in Harry’s magic to let Eggsy clean equipment.

He also gets to watch the recruits train, running laps and laps and laps around the manor house when they’re not collapsing in their beds or with their noses buried in books.

“Are they all posh like you?” he asks Harry one day, when Harry is busying making himself some tea and Eggsy is cleaning and reassembling a case of weapons. “Like how are these recruits picked?”

Harry purses his lips as he stirs his tea. “Whenever a seat at the table falls empty, for whatever reason,” Harry says delicately, “each knight puts forward a candidate they think might be suitable. The candidates then go through a series of tests, and those who lose are sent home. The final person left standing is then asked to join the table.”

Eggsy doesn’t need any more details than that to read between the lines. He’s seen the wealth that’s baked in the mansion walls; he can definitely see knights putting forward their family members to keep the tradition going. He scrubs a little harder at the rifle in his hands and remarks, as casually as he can, “That why you picked my dad, then? To ruffle some feathers?”

Because Harry is fond of ruffling feathers. Eggsy has seen footage of some of his missions, supposedly to learn Harry’s style and what gear he prefers, but really what stood out was the depths of Harry’s mistrust, how extravagant he can be, and of course how much he likes poking and nettling other knights that he deems too stuffy. Knights usually work alone, of course, as there aren’t enough of them to be dedicated partners for every mission, but Harry, by Eggsy’s count, hasn’t had a partner in over twenty years of service as a Kingsman. 

Harry placidly sips at his tea. “I thought we needed some new blood,” he says mildly.

Eggsy swallows down his next question _then why not me_. It’s a moot point, really; until his debt is paid, he can’t be freed from his bond to Harry, which would certainly be an unfair advantage. 

Harry doesn’t seem to notice, or perhaps it is a moot point to him as well. Either way, he finishes his tea and moves to put it in the sink before he says, “Would you like to assist with the training? I’m sure Merlin could use an extra hand, someone who could take the candidates off their guard for us to test.”

And, well, Eggsy won’t turn down an offer like that. “Like Amelia?”

“Well, I think we don’t need to drown them again, but yes. Like Amelia. What do you think?”

“Hell _yes_ ,” Eggsy says.

* * *

Once he’s finished with his duties for the day – clothes laid out, all the doors locked securely, dishes put away – Harry usually lets Eggsy do whatever he wants. Sometimes he goes to visit his mum and Daisy, happily settled in a very nice house not too far away with a growing bank account thanks to Eggsy, and other times he goes out with his mates, although he’s careful to keep his collar up so that no one gets alarmed about his collar. When it’s too much to hide his collar, he hogs Harry’s massive entertainment center, indulging in Harry’s multiple stream services and other media that Kingsman allows him to tap into.

Harry usually spends those nights uploading footage, compiling reports, or whatever he does in his office, but one night he comes down in the middle of a Star Trek marathon. Eggsy doesn’t even notice at first, too drawn into the drama of Q messing with the crew, but he does notice when Harry comes over and nudges his blanket fort with a foot.

“Are you still alive under there,” Harry asks dryly, “or have you become one with the blankets?”

Eggsy swats at his foot. “I could say the same for you and your newspapers,” he replies. “Now leave me alone or hush so I can watch.”

“What are you even watching?”

“Have you never seen Star Trek before?”

“Is that the one with lightsabers?”

Eggsy gapes at him for a solid minute before he realizes that Harry is actually not messing with him for once. The bond thrums with curiosity and amusement, but not the pranking kind, so Eggsy does the sensible thing and shuffles over on Harry’s massive sofa to make room before he grabs Harry’s hand and hauls him down. “That’s Star Wars, and you’ve earned yourself a marathon to learn the difference.”

“I’ve got work, Eggsy,” Harry protests.

“I already proofread and sent off your report on the Litchfield situation, and laid out your gear for tomorrow’s briefing, so no, you don’t have work. Now stay. You’re gonna be educated tonight.”

“That’s very nice, Eggsy, but that will not be necessary – ”

Eggsy narrows his eyes at Harry, because he knows a lie when he sees it. Still, he hasn’t spent these weeks with Harry for nothing; he knows how to make Harry more agreeable. Bargains are, after all, a fae’s bread and butter.

“You watch Star Trek with me,” Eggsy says coyly, “and I’ll let you sign me up for that training session.”

Harry hesitates halfway to his feet. He’s been pestering Eggsy to undergo a Kingsman training course, something that field agents and support staff take alike. For field agents, it’s just a beginner course or a refresher after downtime following a long mission, but for support staff it’s meant to train them up in case of a worst case scenario. Given that Eggsy is neither an official agent nor member of support staff, he’s not been required to take it, but Harry’s been on his case ever since he set foot in HQ.

“I’ve created a menace,” Harry sighs, but he obligingly leans back and trains his eyes on the screen, taken in by both his own natural curiosity and the allure of a bargain. 

Eggsy smirks and reaches for the remote. “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?”

“And how many episodes do I have to watch before I’m considered . . . educated?”

“All of them. Obviously.”

“Eggsy – ”

“You agreed. I want you to live long and prosper, Harry.”

“I don’t understand that reference.”

“You will when I’m done with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed the chapter count go up. Let's just say that if I put in the stuff that was supposed to be in this chapter, it'd be literally three times longer. But I'm hard at work at Chapter 3, so it should come out faster than this one did!
> 
> Also, yes, Star Wars & Star Trek references. Because I can <3


	3. a favor fulfilled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry takes Eggsy on his first mission: confronting Professor Arnold.

_Once upon a time, a fae and a human got into an argument, and they summoned Death to act as witness and mediator and judge._

_“What am I to judge?” said Death, ancient and patient beyond measure._

_“The definition of a favor,” came the answer._

_“I’ll go second,” said the human, with gleaming swords of steel and robes of purple and a weary smile. “A favor is a promise, honest and true and forever honored.”_

* * *

Because Harry is a massive softie, Eggsy wakes up after their impromptu marathon with a pillow tucked under his head and a warm blanket tucked over his shoulders. He’s incapable of putting his clothes back where they belong or doing the dishes, but his mother hen tendencies are on full display whenever it’s someone else.

However, because Harry is also a massive git, Eggsy also wakes up to a notification on his tablet that he’s to report to one of the secondary gyms for his training session at noon.

Today.

“Really?” Eggsy says as he stomps into the kitchen.

Harry, who is the middle of making crepes and egg muffins with magic using one hand and pouring coffee with his other hand, doesn’t even look up as Eggsy slides into his chair. He placidly twitches his finger to turn the page of the newspaper and pointedly takes a sip of his coffee.

A crepe levitates itself from the stove and neatly arranges itself on Eggsy’s plate. It soon is joined by a handful of fresh berries, and then rolls itself up just in time for the powdered sugar and syrup to make a flying pass. 

“Good morning to you too, Eggsy,” Harry says.

Eggsy rolls his eyes. Breakfast is the one dish Harry cooks consistently, although since he uses magic, Eggsy usually doesn’t count it. “Are you that worried that I’m gonna be mugged on the street?”

“You are a member of Kingsman now,” Harry replies. “We hold everyone to a certain standard.”

“I nearly made it through the Marines.”

“Nearly. And besides, we have much higher standards.”

And, well, Harry had made it through the entire night without complaining or trying to flee, so Eggsy sighs and picks up his knife and fork. It had been a very painful lesson learning which to use, but at least it’s mostly instinctual now – and Harry no longer winces every time he goes near silverware. “Who’s in charge of training me?”

“Whichever agent is certified, on base, and free to handle it.”

“Oi, this better not turn into free-for-all on Eggsy Unwin.”

“You know as well as I do that most of our agents are currently in the field right now.”

Eggsy winces at the reminder. Kingsman usually has at least half of its agents on overseas and foreign missions, but after the mysterious death of Lancelot, Arthur authorized that missions be ended as soon and safely as possible to get all hands on deck, as it were. At least two are deployed to Lancelot’s last known location, and three are on their way to speak to contacts in other organizations for intel. 

“Still,” Eggsy says, “I keep getting weird side eyes from other agents.”

Harry finishes his coffee and holds out his cup. The coffee pot obligingly lifts itself up and pours more steaming coffee inside, and then journeys over to Eggsy to repeat the motion. 

“I haven’t taken a companion in many years, Eggsy. But Merlin vetted you, and that should be enough for them.”

“Easy enough for you to say,” Eggsy mutters, stuffing the rest of the crepe into his mouth.

“Finish eating,” Harry orders. “You don’t want to be late.”

* * *

Kingsman has a million gyms scattered all over the place, mostly because some of them are for the public face of the mansion (for meetings and briefings), others are for basic training (like what the trainees are using), and still others are customizable and used for deep cover or intense situational training. In line with that, some of them are easy to find, since they’ve got double doors and glass walls to show that they’re full of equipment, and others, well. 

Others are the reason Eggsy is glad he has a map.

Fortunately, he is not at all late to his noon training session, in one of the secondary gyms where regular training occurs, so Eggsy can take his sweet time to warm up. The gym is covered in large blue mats, perfect for falls and spars, and so Eggsy takes full advantage to do some of his gymnastic routines, reveling in the open space. He is, in fact, midway through a tumbling routine when he hears the door open and close, and cuts it off so that he can face his trainer.

Who is a smirking Harry.

Granted, a Harry not wearing the full suit, but he still has his watch full of darts, his signet ring with an electric charge, and the garrote wire woven into his collar.

Eggys rolls to his feet and braces his hands on his hips. “Only certified, on base, and free agents, huh?”

Harry shrugs and starts to stretch, toeing off his shoes at the edge of the mat. “It’s not like I’ll have the issue of partiality. You’re my companion, and it makes sense for me to train you up to my standards. Besides, the only certified agent who is one base right now is Arthur, and he’s certainly not free.”

“Merlin ain’t certified?”

Harry smiles. “Merlin doesn’t get involved with the physical training sessions,” he explains. “He’s much too busy for that. And besides, seeing as he oversees the candidate trials, most of the candidates undergo some or all of their initial training under him anyways.”

“How much is this gonna hurt?”

“Well, I can see you already know how to fall. That’ll take some of the sting out of it.”

“If you throw me into a wall, I will mismatch all of your socks,” Eggsy threatens, but he can still feel a smile tugging at his lips as Harry sinks into a ready stance. He’s seen Harry fight, after all, and although Harry isn’t dependent on gadgets, it definitely changes his fighting style when he doesn’t have them. Eggsy, meanwhile, learned to fight without any aid – his gadgets are his mind and his reflexes and his fists, and they’ve served him well.

“Best out of three?”

“Five,” Harry says, and charges.

* * *

Merlin finds them afterwards, when Eggsy is black and blue and Harry is slightly out of breath – and nursing his leg from where Eggsy had kicked it mid jump – and raises his eyebrow, but doesn’t otherwise comment. 

“Agent Galahad,” he says, “Mr. Unwin.”

“What’s up?” Eggsy asks, pushing himself to his feet and rubbing at his back. Merlin has given him things for Harry, or giving briefings to Harry, but he rarely approaches both of them regarding something. After receiving a crash course in who to ask questions to (“Anyone but me, I’m busy”), Merlin has cheerfully ignored him.

Merlin closes the door and activates the mirror. The reflective back slides down, allowing a screen to slide into place, activating as Merlin swipes and sends a file from his clipboard to the screen. A video clip starts playing, grainy black and white security footage, of a man with a briefcase walking across a road. Merlin freezes it when the man looks up, and then information pops up on the side as Kingsman facial recognition kicks in. 

“Professor Arnold,” Harry says, reading the name. “I’m not familiar. Who is he?”

“A scientist, preaching about the end of the world and Gaia theory,” Merlin answers. “But that’s not why we’re focusing on him.”

Another swipe brings up the second image, the standard faded green background of a Kingsman glasses chat. It’s how Kingsman agents communicate, using a virtual keyboard and their eyes, with handlers and other agents when talking or hand signals is out of the question. Harry had given Eggsy a crash course, and then given him medication when Eggsy had gotten a headache after three hours of trying to master the typing.

“This was Agent Lancelot’s last message.”

“Kidnap victim is Professor James Arnold?” Harry reads. His brow furrows and he steps closer to the screen, tapping on it to bring up the security video again. “He doesn’t look kidnapped. Unless – ”

“No, that’s this morning’s footage,” Eggsy notes, glancing at the timestamp. “No offense to him, but he doesn’t look like the kind of guy who could rescue himself.”

“Precisely,” Merlin says. He closes the video and begins tapping away at his clipboard. Harry blinks twice, the way he always does when new information comes through his glasses, and Eggsy can hear the soft chime of a file appearing in his Kingsman inbox. “Arthur has authorized a mission to speak to Professor Arnold. Location and background info have been sent.” Merlin pauses, and then very carefully concludes, “You’ve been cleared to use any means necessary.”

Harry’s gaze hardens, ever so slightly. “He works at a public university.”

“And you’ll have access to a Kingsman cab. Arthur wants the matter of Agent Lancelot’s passing resolved . . . in an expedient manner.”

“Understood,” Harry says. 

Harry must see the protest gathering in Eggsy’s face, because he jerks his head very sharply to the left the second Merlin leaves, and Eggsy obediently closes his mouth. He’s been warned, after all, just how thoroughly bugged HQ is, and even Harry’s house is pretty bugged because it’s a Kingsman agent’s residence. That being said, there are more blind spots there than at HQ.

So Eggsy holds his tongue all the way through their clean up, all the way through their train ride, and all the way home, whereupon he stomps straight out to the back garden and the little pool – _Water has a dampening effect on both magical and normal listening devices, Eggsy_ – to find Harry already rubbing his forehead as if anticipating the argument.

“You gonna torture a civilian now?”

Harry sighs. “I will ask him. And if doesn’t answer, or won’t, then I’ll do what must be done.”

“He’s a civilian.”

“You know as well as I do that appearances can be deceiving.”

“He ain’t a fae.”

“No, he is not, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t working with one.” Harry crosses his arms and looks at the ground. “I’m not proud of everything I’ve done as a Kingsman agent, Eggsy. Sometimes . . . there are even things I wish I could take back. But if Professor Arnold is free because of Lancelot, then we need to know what happened. He may be a target.”

“Or despite of Lancelot,” Eggsy says, because he can hear the suspicion underlying every single syllable in Harry’s sentences.

Harry inclines his head. “Yes. If he engineered Lancelot’s death, then he might have given his kidnappers more information about Kingsman. Therefore, he’s a good place to start if we need to retrieve any of that information.”

“That still doesn’t rule out torture.”

“No. It doesn’t. But I won’t let Lancelot’s death have been for nothing.”

“Fine,” Eggsy relents. “But I’m driving.”

Harry smiles. “Why do you think I asked Merlin to let you start with the cars?”

* * *

“You got your lighter?”

“Yes, Eggsy.”

“And your glasses?”

“You can see them on my face.”

“And you – ”

“Eggsy,” Harry interrupts. He sighs and closes his car door again. After a moment, he leans forward and presses the button to engage the locks and privacy screens, making it appear that their car is truly just another black London cab. “Eggsy, I assure you, I have everything I need. You laid out everything perfectly for me.”

Then Harry reaches over and lays a hand on Eggsy’s knee, which he hadn’t even noticed was jiggling up and down, and says, “Please breathe.”

“Sorry,” Eggsy says. “I’m just. Sorry.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, but he stays in the car for a few more moments, just maintaining contact, and slowly Eggsy feels his heart rate come back down to normal. It is his first official mission with Harry, after all, because so far Harry’s only done recon from very far away or done online infiltration. Eggsy’s practiced, of course, using old tapes and reports from previous missions to learn Harry’s style and what he should do on the side, but that’s very different from sitting in a car and knowing that in a few moments Harry will get out and be at risk for anything from fae combat to a whiny civilian. 

“I know what I’m doing, Eggsy,” Harry says eventually, voice quiet and even and suffused with warmth. “And thanks to you, cold iron is no longer an effective deterrent or weapon. We’ll go in, get the information, and come out. It’ll be fine.”

Eggsy swallows. “Okay. I’ll be waiting.”

Harry gives him a short nod and then leans forward to touch his palm to the touchscreen in between the front seats. A map pulls up, blinking with dots to track Harry, Eggsy, all available Kingsman agents and safe houses, along with an emergency chat that goes straight to Merlin for any problems.

“Twenty minutes, tops,” Harry says cheerfully, and heads out of the car.

* * *

It’s less than twenty minutes, but seeing as Harry comes barreling out of a window after an explosion, half of his body on fire and the other half in severe pain, Eggsy does not count it as a win.

* * *

Merlin comes to get Eggsy, once everything is done. Eggsy already knows he’s coming, mostly because the pain he’s been feeling from Harry finally tapers down to a manageable little tickle, rather than aching burn it’s been ever since the explosion. Merlin’s face is tight and lined with worry, which does not at all encourage Eggsy.

“We finally got all the cold iron shards out,” Merlin says the second he gets to Eggsy. “So his healing should finally kick in. But his glasses were damaged in the explosion, and there’s no back-up of what happened.”

“So, you have no idea what happened?”

“None whatsoever,” Merlin says grimly. “And I assume he didn’t let you listen in?”

Eggsy shakes his head. He’d asked, of course, but all Harry had provided was the GPS map of his position and the target’s. “Said I didn’t have the proper mission clearance yet.”

Merlin sighs and looks at the ceiling, as if praying for patience. “Well, there goes that idea. Galahad usually streams a back-up to his home station, but the encryption is incredibly personalized. Even I can’t get in. And I bet you can’t either, if he wasn’t even willing to let you listen in during a mission.”

“So we wait?”

“So we wait,” Merlin agrees. He shakes his head once, clearly annoyed, before he says, “I assume you want to come see him?”

Eggsy scrambles to his feet, because that shouldn’t even be a _question_. From the moment he’d felt the spike in Harry’s emotions and heard the roar of the explosion, he’d known something had gone terribly wrong. And when Harry had barreled through the window and crawled into the cab, choking and coughing and smelling like burnt flesh, Eggsy had put his foot on the pedal and driven faster than he ever had in his life. He’d hit a lot of green lights too – Merlin’s doing, he suspects – but even so, Harry had still passed out before they’d made it to the shop.

Harry looks absolutely horrible when they finally get the room. He’s on a ventilator, pumping oxygen into his lungs, and has a collar protecting his neck and spine. There are also stones laid around Harry, glowing faintly, and Eggsy knows without asking that they have magic.

He nods to the ventilator. “I thought fae didn’t need to breathe.”

“We usually don’t. But when cold iron is involved, it’s best to take all the precautions possible, so that the healing occur at an optimal pace.” Merlin pauses, and his tone softens. “He’s lucky he had you, lad. Without it, he wouldn’t be able to recover. We dug enough cold iron shards out of him to make a bullet, and that’s all you need, in the right place.”

Eggsy frowns. Cold iron is expensive, although not necessarily impossibly rare. That being said, it’s extraordinarily difficult to shape, which is why it’s usually relegated to big weapons – guns and staffs and tanks – rather than small weapons. And it would have to be something small, or Harry would’ve sensed the danger before he got anywhere near it. He might still have engaged, but all Kingsman protocols require agents to call for backup if cold iron comes into the picture, unless it’s such a deep cover mission that that isn’t possible.

“Can we trace the cold iron?”

Merlin shakes his head. “We’re trying, but I’m doubtful. Magical tracking is out of the question, since the fragments repel spells. And if any companies are making tiny cold iron explosives, they’re keeping quiet about it.”

Eggsy knows Merlin well enough by now to realize that’s tantamount to admitting to a dead end. Merlin – and Kingsman in general – have fingers in a lot of pies, even if they aren’t beholden to state governments. They track threats all over the world, and so if Merlin doesn’t know already, it’s unlikely that it’ll be found now. Especially since the perpetrator will probably go dark if they connect the dots between today’s explosion and their gadgets. 

So instead, he just sighs and walks towards Harry. 

The stones thrum as he gets close, but they don’t stop him, and Eggsy lays a hand over Harry’s. His skin is warm and clean, since the medical team washed him up, but it still feels wrong to see Harry – a fae, an agent, a powerful magical being – still and silent and attached to mortal medical machines. He’s still got an otherworldly quality, seeing as he is floating in midair due to magic and his wings are still twitching every once in a while, but it’s muted now. He could be any bloke with wings, as he is now.

A knock sounds on the door, a rapid _tap tap_ , and then it opens to reveal Arthur. Merlin inclines his head, and Eggsy follows suit.

Arthur’s nose wrinkles when he sees Eggsy, but then he looks to Merlin. “I assume the operation was a success?”

“Yes, sir. His healing kicked in the moment we removed the last shard, and it’s being amplified with some of the healing stones.”

“Do we have any idea what happened?”

“No. Galahad’s home security is impenetrable.”

“Hmm. And I suppose that thing doesn’t happen to have access?”

Eggsy bites down his reflexive response. He’s always known Arthur didn’t like him – the traditional knights, Harry had said, appreciated the old ways of companionship, but thought only the best should be chosen for such an honor – but usually Arthur isn’t quite so direct. Then again, he has no desire to be thrown out of HQ and away from Harry, so he just lowers his eyes to the ground.

Merlin raises an eyebrow, but his tone is calm when he answers Arthur. “Mr. Unwin doesn’t have mission clearance. Agent Galahad knew better than to break protocol.”

Arthur sniffs. “Well, at least he had some sense. Keep me appraised of any updates.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And deal with . . . him.”

The door shuts behind Arthur with a definitive snap, and Eggsy waits for a few moments before he speaks, because he’s not an idiot.

“Wow, he really doesn’t like me.”

Merlin rubs at his forehead. He looks stressed again, the veneer of calm and control from Arthur’s visit fading away, and weary, like he’s been up for 7 days and needs a nice long nap. Or maybe three. “Arthur has known Harry for a long time,” Merlin says finally. “He’s just . . . worried. Harry’s one of our best knights, and now he’s out of commission and we can’t find who did it until he wakes up.”

Eggsy tilts his head. “So what happens to me?”

“Well, you can’t leave HQ. Harry will draw from your strength as he heals, and the last thing we need is you getting into trouble and causing him to come out of his coma before he’s ready.” Merlin raises his clipboard and begins tapping rapidly at it. “How do you feel about playing some games with our candidates?”

* * *

Morgause gives him a pep talk as they tie him up, mostly because she probably thinks Eggsy is fidgeting out of nervousness. “Alright, let’s go over this one more time. Your role is to teach our candidates to not make assumptions about their targets, especially after they’ve been embedded in enemy organizations and, presumably, suffered at their hands for a while. You’ll be restrained here for them to ‘rescue’ and are allowed to hinder the mission as much as possible, including being clumsy, being loud, or simply getting in the way. At some point, when they’ve turned their back on you, your job is to – ”

“Lay ‘em out on the floor,” Eggsy concludes with relish. He winces as one of their makeup artists finishes painting a bruise on his cheek. “No permanent damage, but can render unconscious. Easy peasy.”

Morgause gives him a look. She’d accepted him, when Merlin had brought him to her and said to include him in a lesson plan, but Eggsy can tell that she hadn’t thought much of him. Perks of being human and all that, but Eggsy’s status as a civilian support staff member probably hadn’t helped either.

“ . . . You’re eager to beat them up, aren’t you?” Morgause asks.

Eggsy grins. His lip splits and bleeds from where Harry had whacked him in the face during their training session, and his artist makes an approving noise as he does the final touch up. “Can you blame me?”

“You are definitely like Harry,” Morgause groans. 

Eggsy shrugs – or, well, moves his shoulders as much as he can given the ropes typing down his arms, chest, and legs. “Hey, seeing as none of the candidates are human, I might as well take the chance to remind them that humans aren’t helpless. I won’t even need cold iron to do it. Just my fists. And my legs.”

“No permanent damage,” Morgause reminds him dryly. “And press the button on your ring if you need out for any reason.”

“Aye aye,” Eggsy says cheerfully. “Send ‘em in!”

There are only six or so candidates left, so Eggsy gets to have a lot of fun. Most of them are entirely focused upon fulfilling their mission and – since all of them are fae – treat him as a delicate human bauble, meaning that they usually turn their back on him within two seconds flat. Eggsy drags his feet, yells whenever he sees so much as a shadow to attract the guards, and usually manages to catch them off guard pretty quick. One time, he even lets his shirt shift so that the candidate can get a glimpse of his collar, but that just makes the candidate sneer.

“No wonder we were tasked to rescue you,” he mutters, poking his head around a corner like he thinks Eggsy can’t hear him. “Why some fae chose to take gutter trash as pets, I have no idea.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes. In the candidate’s defense, he’s got good skills – he’s fought off both guards that appeared when Eggsy tripped and fell, he has easily scavenged and adapted to the two new firearms they’ve come across, and he’s avoided both of the trip wires that caught the previous two candidates. 

He’s still a snob, though.

But Eggsy has a role to play, so he bats his eyes. “Do you think we’ll get out safe?” he says, making his voice wobble like he’s afraid for his life.

The candidate shoots him an annoyed look. “Maybe if you stop being so loud about it,” he hisses.

Eggsy sniffles and wipes at his eyes. “I just wanna go home.”

“If it weren’t for orders, I’d leave your arse behind,” the candidate says, clearly frustrated. He grabs Eggsy’s arm and pulls him into a room, shutting the door behind them as guards march past. They know that Eggsy and the candidate are inside, of course, given that Eggsy has a GPS tracker in his ring, but they put a good show of searching and pretending not to know. “Now be quiet.”

“But I – ”

“Just – shut – your – fat – gob,” the candidate hisses, poking Eggsy straight in the throat like he wants to stab him.

Eggsy sighs and shakes his head. If there’s one thing Harry had emphasized, it was that Kingsman were meant to be gentleman knights – being kind and courteous and chivalrous to all, from the highest of kings to the lowest of the poor. And if the candidate is already losing his patience with Eggsy now . . .

The candidate is also, of course, not watching his back, so it’s easy for Eggsy to lock his arm around the man’s throat and press down on his artery. The man flails, but Eggsy didn’t spend a year in the Marines for nothing, and after about ten seconds, the man is out.

Eggsy dusts his hands and stands up. “Well, that was definitely not,” he tells the unconscious candidate, "proper gentlemanly behavior.”

His ear crackles as his comm comes on, and he can hear Morgause’s muffled snicker. She’d told Eggsy to use the ring provided by the Kingsman, either to shock or to sedate the candidates, but Eggsy’s been using old school techniques, and apparently the techs are getting a kick out of the show. 

“One down,” Morgause says, “one more to go.”

“You’ll have to get someone to move this one,” Eggsy says, nudging at the candidate with his foot. “He’s out cold.”

A new voice joins the line. “Good work, Mr. Unwin,” Merlin says briskly. “We’ll move Charlie into interrogation training and bring in the next candidate. Please report back to the center of the maze for the final candidate’s test.”

“You gonna sign him up for more combat training too? Cuz he went down real fast.”

Merlin sighs. “They all need more combat training,” he says darkly, and then the line clicks as he disengages.

* * *

The final candidate is, surprisingly, a woman. She’s got lovely wings, royal purple edged with silver, and her face is warm and reassuring as she unties Eggsy. She catches him when he pretends to fall face first over the trip wire, shoves him into a corner to shield him with her own body when a booby trap goes off, and although she doesn’t shut him down when he pretends to moan and cry, she doesn’t baby him either. 

“Listen to me,” she says sharply, “I’m going to get you out, but I need your help. I need to focus on moving forward. So you keep looking behind us and only make a sound if you notice anything, okay?”

Eggsy sniffles and nods. Inwardly, though, he approves. It gives any nervous target a mission, something to focus on and do, and it leaves her free to keep scouting.

She also asks questions.

Morgause had prepared several cover stories, of course, but each comes with holes. Some are pretty glaring, and some are a lot more subtle. Eggsy’s been using the ones with holes large enough to drive a lorry though, mostly because none of the candidates have done anything besides grunt his fake name at him for confirmation. But this time, he goes with a subtler story, and he can tell the moment she starts to find some holes.

“So . . . you got picked up and stuffed in a cab?” she asks.

Eggsy nods rapidly, a guileless smile on his face. “Yeah, some weirdo must’ve drugged my drink.”

“So you were at a club first?”

“Self service, if you know what I mean,” Eggsy answers, winking at her.

She doesn’t ask any more questions, but Eggsy does notice that she makes sure to keep an eye on him – and his hands – after that. She also very neatly disables the guards they come across, taking full advantage of the space around them and random items to use as weapons. All in all, by the end of it, Eggsy is definitely rooting for her, and almost feels bad when he gets the triple click in his ear to signal that they’re reaching the end of the maze and he has to act.

She throws him off twice, first with an overhead throw and then with a bruising kick to the shin, and Eggsy ends up having to sedate her with his ring.

Afterwards, he shakes out his fist and looks towards the nearest camera. “Please tell me there’s a betting pool and that I can bet on her,” he says.

“Kingsman do not place bets,” Merlin replies sternly.

“Not on an open line anyways,” Morgause whispers in his ear. “I’ll drop you the info later.”

* * *

With his cover blown as someone working with Kingsman, Eggsy doesn’t get called upon to directly work with the candidates again, but Morgause and Merlin do let him help out behind the scenes. He gets to design an obstacle course, one of the many the candidates have to run, and he successfully advocates for a gymnastics session to be added to the roster, officially to further weed out those who can’t keep and unofficially because it’s hilarious to see the rich pricks falling head over heels over basic maneuvers. 

He also gets access to the Kingsman servers, so he can mess with the candidates virtually. He hacks some of their accounts (so that their inboxes open to animal photos instead of their messages), he messages them from IT and slips in codes and ciphers to see if they catch on (only two do), and, best of all, he gets to play the role of the dummy, because the candidates have to give and take directions exceptionally well, no matter the level of experience or training that’s on the other end, and it’s great to pretend to be incredibly thick regarding technology and watch some of the candidates lose their minds.

He is, in fact, messing about with Candidate Arthur 01 – Charlie – when Morgause pokes her head in.

“It’s lunch time, why are you still here?”

Eggsy swivels around in his chair. He doesn’t have an official desk, but Kingsman has plenty of random spare rooms, and so his room has gained a comfortable chair, triple monitors, and a snack tin he nicked from the cafeteria. “Uh, cuz Charlie’s about to cuss me out and I think one more _I don’t get it_ email will push him over the edge?”

“Yeah, but I thought you’d be dying to get to the medical wing.”

Eggsy frowns. “Why? You know I only go in the mornings.” He used to spend hours at Harry’s side, holding his hand or reading him stories or just sitting there and basking in his presence, so that Harry could take whatever energy he needed, but Merlin eventually kicked him out, so that Harry wouldn’t accidentally drain him dry instead of taking some from the healing stones.

“Harry’s been asking for you,” Morgause says, eyes big and innocent. “Didn’t Merlin tell you?”

Seeing as Merlin had said exactly two things to Eggsy this morning – “What are you wearing?” and “Today’s assignment is in your inbox” – Eggsy curses. A touch to his collar confirms that it’s warmer than it’s been in weeks, even though Eggsy had thought it was because he’d finally managed to wrangle the shade up to get some sun in his office. Yet in the reflection of the monitors, he can see that the butterfly wings are shifting and the flowers are waving, little movements that had ceased the second Harry had gone into the coma.

“Well, get on with it,” Morgause says, and holds the door wide open.

Eggsy doesn’t remember much of the mad dash to the med wing. The path is already ingrained in his muscle memory, after all, and most people are smart enough to get out of the way when someone in the Kingsman uniform goes dashing down the hall. Normally, he’d get an eyebrow, because Kingsman doesn’t recruit people as young as him, but given that candidates are crawling all over HQ, he gets a pass, so he manages to slide into the med wing in record time. He doesn’t even knock, just bursts in, and feasts upon the sight of Harry standing for the first time in weeks.

“I think we might need to discuss the art of knocking,” Harry says dryly from where he’s facing the mirror, examining his freshly shaved cheeks. 

His wings are unfurled and relaxed, like a proper fae’s should, and he’s wearing actual clothing and breathing and talking – and before Eggsy knows it, he’s barreling straight into the room to throw his arms around Harry and squeeze tight, not even caring that he’s squashing the bottom part of Harry’s wings.

Harry certainly notices, if the grunt he gives is any indication, and for a moment he stands as still as stone, clearly unsure what to do.

Then Eggsy whispers, “I missed you.”

Harry’s arms fold around him, like a warm blanket, and his wings flutter forwards to, brushing against Eggsy’s cheek and neck in a cool breeze. The collar warms too, not unbearably hot like the summer sun, but the warmth of hot cocoa and pizza and freshly baked bread – comforting and familiar and just as good the first time as it is the last.

“Hello, Eggsy,” Harry says softly. “It’s good to be back.”

Eggsy lifts his head. Harry still has some faint marks on his forehead, where the cold iron shrapnel left their mark, but otherwise he looks fit as normal. Well, as fit as he is in the morning, anyways, in a dressing gown and with his hair uncombed. “What happened? Merlin says the stream to HQ was interrupted.”

“Yes, I’d quite like to know what happened too,” comes a voice from the doorway, and Eggsy peers around just in time to see Merlin close the door behind him. He doesn’t appear at all fazed by their embrace, although a tiny smirk does flash across his face when they separate. “Would you mind doing the honors, Galahad?”

Harry steps forward and places his hand on the screen, which authenticates his handprint. Then Merlin goes through, finding the file and pulling it up easily, and Eggsy watches with rapt attention.

At least, right up until the bloke’s head explodes.

“That’s rank,” Eggsy says. “Harry, what the hell, did you need to explode his head?”

Harry glares at him, but it’s Merlin who comes to defense. 

“Actually,” Merlin says, “the explosion was caused by an implant in the professor’s neck. Which is where the cold iron shards came from. We’re not sure what triggered it, but scans didn’t indicate any kind of recording or monitoring devices in the room itself. And Galahad’s feed wasn’t hacked, so they weren’t tipped off from us.”

“Do we know where the signal came from that triggered the explosion?” Harry asks, apparently taking the whole exploding head thing in stride.

“Good news is yes,” Merlin replies. “Bad news is it came from the Valentine corporation. It’ll take ages to figure out exactly where.”

Eggsy looks at the spinning V logo and cocks his head. Two days ago, the candidates had been set to dismantle and then reassemble cell phones and other communication devices, and Eggsy had read up on the newest cool things in tech just to see what toys they’d get their hands on. Merlin had even given him an old Kingsman SIM card, just to play around with and get familiar with Kingsman comm devices. Of course, when Eggsy had Googled SIM cards, Kingsman tech hadn’t come up, but – 

“Oi, Merlin,” Eggsy says, interrupting Harry and Merlin’s discussion. “You remember how you gave me that SIM card to mess about with?”

“Yes?”

“I did some Googling on it too, okay, and obviously Kingsman didn’t come up, but guess who did?”

Harry sighs. “Let me guess: Valentine?”

“Yeah. Pull up the announcement, will you?”

* * *

“I cannot believe you are agreeing to infiltrate this place,” Eggsy grumbles as he irons out Harry’s pants. Harry is currently enjoying a leisurely bath, because fae heal better in nature and a bath is the most natural thing in this house, but the door is open, so Eggsy knows Harry can hear him. “The guy blows people’s heads up!”

Harry’s exasperated sigh is audible even over the sound of water. “As I lack an implant, we can reasonably assume that he can’t blow up my head,” he says patiently.

“Assume means we don’t know for sure!”

“The implant had cold iron in it, and I would know if any cold iron was in my body. Plus I would have set off the alarms at Kingsman HQ when I was in the medical wing.”

“None of our scans caught the _explosive_ implant in the guy’s _head_ when you were three feet away from him!” Eggsy points out, moving on to Harry’s shirt. “What if he’s got his place rigged to blow?”

Metal clinks as Harry pulls the plug, presumably to get out, and so the next words Harry says are muffled by a towel. “He’s holding a gala, so I doubt he’d want to blow up all of his donors,” Harry says dryly.

“The man’s nutty enough to put an explosive implant in people’s heads,” Eggsy stresses. “I don’t think we should be relying on reason as his motivation.”

Harry sticks his head into the doorway. He’s still soaking wet, but his eyes are narrowed in a way that suggests he’s about to walk over and grab his suit and walk away anyways, Eggsy’s and Merlin’s warnings be damned.

Eggsy lifts the iron and points it at him. “Look, you gotta admit I have a point.”

“I haven’t denied that,” Harry says, slipping into a robe and toweling his hair dry. He walks out and into the bedroom, settling himself on the bed to continue drying himself. “But no mission is without danger, Eggsy, and this is my mission. It’s my duty to finish it. Besides, Valentine isn’t the only person with explosives.”

Eggsy winces. So Harry had seen him swiping a handful of lighters as they left the shop, then. Usually Harry tells him off when he catches him, though.

“And I won’t be going alone,” Harry continues, cutting off Eggsy’s reply. “Merlin has given you special clearance for my missions, at my discretion. You can be my eyes and ears in the vehicle, to relay information back to Merlin in HQ or to me as necessary. And if we need to make a quick getaway, I’m sure you can pull that off easily. Does that make things more acceptable to you?”

Eggsy blows out a long breath and shuts off the iron. He can’t argue that they aren’t taking the proper precautions, because they are; Merlin himself is overseeing the mission, and another knight is on stand-by for back up. And since Eggsy will have access to the direct feed, he can immediately come to Harry’s aid in the car for an escape or call for assistance if necessary. And Harry is wearing a brand new suit, woven with the latest armorweave that deflects bullets and most knives, and got a brand new watch with the latest upgrades and a refreshed load of darts. All in all, he’s more prepared for a gala than most knights are for recon.

“I just . . . don’t want you to get hurt. Again,” Eggsy confesses, gripping the edge of the ironing board until his knuckles go white. 

Harry’s hand is warm when he lays it gently over Eggsy’s. His skin feels exactly like human skin – warm and wet and a bit wrinkled from too much time in the bath – and if Eggsy were to close his eyes, he could almost imagine that Harry was giving him a human hug. 

Well, until his wings unfurl anyways. 

Harry puts his other hand on Eggsy’s collar, stroking at the butterflies and flowers, and says, “I will get hurt, Eggsy. Maybe not on this mission or the next, but one day. But with you, I stand a chance of being hurt a lot less, and healing a lot faster. And I think we can make a difference in the world.”

“Just part of being a Kingsman?” Eggsy says bitterly.

“Yes,” Harry says. “And part of saving lives. Or do you think being a Marine would mean you were immune from injury?”

“That’s different.”

“How so?”

“I’m just a human.”

“And now you’re mine,” Harry says, a strange undertone to his voice. “You can see magic, and walk in our court, and do things no human can even dream of. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Eggsy reaches back and grabs Harry’s hand before he can withdraw it. The brush of Harry’s wing makes him shiver, but he holds on tight. “And I won’t let anything happen to you. That’s how this works.”

“Is it now?”

“Yeah, unless you want me to burn your pants.”

“Threat acknowledged,” Harry teases, and walks away to get changed.

* * *

“That lady is proper scary,” Eggsy says the second they pull out of the Valentine compound, which is like the Kingsman HQ if it had been modernized and also had fifty billion more security cameras. “Did you see her legs?”

“Yes, I did. And I also know that when Princess Tilde went missing, some of her guards showed up missing limbs that had been sliced off. Merlin?”

The screen at the console flickers to life, showing Merlin’s face. He has multiple coffee cups around his desk, a testament to the work he’s been putting in, and there are bags under his eyes. It almost makes Eggsy wince, but Harry sends him a pointed glare so he puts his eyes back on the road. The Kingsman cabs have autopilot, of course, and would warn him before a crash – and they’re armored so they’d probably come out unscathed – but no need to tempt Merlin’s temper.

Or worse, Alice’s.

“I had the same thought,” Merlin says. “Without having a close up look, we can only approximate, but early simulations suggest it’s possible.”

“But why kidnap the princess of Sweden?” Eggsy asks. “Isn’t that kind of . . . random?”

“She’s not the only member of a royal family to go missing within the past week,” Merlin says grimly. “If Valentine is collecting trophies, he’s certainly working his way up the list of celebrities and nobility. Galahad, we have to assume that he might either invite you to another gala or launch a collection himself. I think it’s best you remain at your house, away from HQ, for the time being. I’ll analyze the footage from your glasses for any hints.”

Harry inclines his head, although Eggsy can tell he does so begrudgingly. “Yes, I thought I caught a glimpse of a church pamphlet. We should look into that.”

Merlin scowls at the camera. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” he snaps, and then the screen dies.

After a moment, Eggsy asks, “So are you benched?”

Harry reaches up and loosens his tie. He doesn’t slump in his seat or splay his legs, because that would be ungentleman-like, but he does lean his head back and close his eyes, probably forming his mission report in his head. Eggsy has seen his mission reports – they’re scary. “Effectively, yes, until we get more data or Valentine reaches out again,” he answers. “Why?”

“Then it’s time for another marathon,” Eggsy says gleefully.

“Eggsy, I have watched quite enough adventures on a spaceship. Enough to last me several life times.”

“Yeah, but we still have to educate you on Star Wars!”

“Only if you promise not to flash the Vulcan salute at me for days afterwards.”

“That’s _Star Trek_ , Harry!”

* * *

Harry delays their marathon for a few days, citing tiredness and the need to catch up on paperwork. Eggsy lets him get away with it for a bit, mostly so he can finish up some of his work with the Kingsman candidates, but when Merlin lets him know that the remaining candidates are facing one of their final tests – something involving trains and bars, apparently – he tells Eggsy that his work is finished, and deactivates his access to boot.

Eggsy scowls, fingers frozen over a half formed message on a now dead screen, and goes back to the home page. 

Harry walks past him on his way into the kitchen and raises an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

Eggsy slumps into the couch, letting his tablet fall onto his stomach. “Merlin kicked me out,” he moans. “I was having so much fun annoying the candidates, but Merlin said they were down to the final two and I wasn’t needed. And now I’m _bored_ , Harry.”

“Ah, those were the days,” Harry says wistfully. “Merlin used to recruit some of the knights to do that.”

Eggsy rolls over and opens one eye to squint at him. “Really? What did you do?”

“Whatever Merlin wanted. Did Merlin do the parachute test?”

“The one where he lies and says one poor sod doesn’t have one and they all panic midair? Yeah.”

Harry shakes his head and sighs, a small smile on his face. “You may note that he lied, my dear Eggsy. Everyone had a parachute. Merlin needed to know how they would react under pressure – if they would panic, if they would come together, who would step forward as a leader. It’s useful information in determining where the new Kingsman will be placed. For example, the previous Lancelot was excellent at very flamboyant takedowns and blending in at high society events, but the new Lancelot might specialize in a different area.”

“And what do you specialize in?”

“Whatever is needed,” Harry says, poker-faced. He drops his tea bag into his cup and lets it sink. “And if we’re down to the final two candidates, then all that’s left is the train test and the dog test.”

Eggsy opens his mouth. Closes it. Squints. “Are these more messed up trials?”

“No.”

“I thought fae couldn’t lie.”

“They are not messed up, Eggsy. They are meant to judge a candidate’s resourcefulness, awareness, and most importantly, their trust and loyalty to the organization. A Kinsgman agent who doubts our mission is better of seeking employment elsewhere.”

Eggsy tilts his head and crosses his arms. Given that he’s seen Merlin drown the candidates, drop them out of a plane, abandon them in a random European country in their underpants, and make them do a bazillion laps in full gear, he’s less than inclined to believe that Merlin wouldn’t have something nasty up his hand for the final exams to test the best of the best.

“Alright,” he says, “impress me. What’s the train test and the dog test?”

“The train test is the test of loyalty,” Harry answers. “We put our candidates in a situation where they are asked to choose between losing their lives or giving up information on their sponsors, and those who yield the information are, naturally, dismissed.”

“ . . . Okay,” Eggsy says slowly. “And the dog test?”

“Same principle, although this is the test of trust,” Harry says, sipping at his tea. “We ask our candidates to choose between disobeying a direct order or shooting their dog, and those who – ”

The tablet hits the floor with a thunk.

“You WHAT?” Eggsy shouts, barely comprehending that he’s gone from lying down to standing up in less than a blink. “They have to _shoot_ their dogs? How is that not messed up, Harry? They’ve been caring for those dogs for _weeks_ now, since they were puppies! That is entirely the definition of messed up!”

“Eggsy,” Harry says, “Eggsy, listen to me – ”

“Absolutely not, not if you’re gonna justify killing a dog!” And then Eggsy remembers the stuffed dog in the downstairs loo, the one with a plaque and a place of honor, and blanches, because even though he refuses to piss in there, he still remembers the sheer visceral fright that had passed through him when he’d first walked in and made eye contact. “ _Oh my god, is that why you stuffed your dog?_ ”

“Mr. Pickle? No, he’s stuffed because – ”

Eggsy covers his ears. It won’t be enough – Harry is powerful enough to reach through their bond to speak to him, although he never does because, in his words, text and email are far more reliable – but Harry usually respects his private space, and sure enough, when Eggsy runs upstairs, heart racing, harry does not follow him. 

He throws himself into his bedroom and slams the door shut, bile churning in his throat. Eggsy’s never had a pet, but he can’t imagine shooting a dog point blank, the same way he can’t imagine shooting his sister. It’s unthinkable, unbelievable, impossibly cruel beyond anything Eggsy imagined of Harry. Harry has always been respectful of all life, as every fae usually is, and he even invited someone like Eggsy’s dad – a regular old human commoner, compared to the poncy gifts with wings that climb all over HQ – to join Kingsman, to try and get a better life, to be something amazing.

Then again, the fae had once waged a war to exterminate all of human kind. They’d failed, of course, but what is one human to them? Or one dog’s life?

Eggsy buries himself beneath his blankets and covers his eyes, so he cannot see the soft glowing light of his collar, and cries.

* * *

Eggsy finally ventures out around dinner time, because his stomach is growling for food and because he’s had enough time to formulate arguments on why shooting dogs is a terrible, terrible idea. The house is eerily silent as he walks down the stairs, and the lack of noise chips at his resolve, but as he passes the downstairs loo, he sees Mr. Pickle again in his place of honor, and so he strides into the kitchen with his head held high.

“Okay, listen, Harry,” Eggsy starts, only to realize that he’s speaking to an empty room. “Harry? Harry!”

Harry is not in the kitchen, the downstairs study, the dining room, or in the garden outside. He is not in the bathroom, his bedroom, or the upstairs study. He’s not even in the attic he thinks Eggsy doesn’t know about, which has a training space and another weapons cache. In fact, when Eggsy goes to the security system and activates it, he finds that the system has been armed to level 2, which means that someone has left the house.

“Are you serious, Harry?” Eggsy mutters, and stomps off towards the study.

To any outsider, the study might look untouched – chair pushed in, computer in sleep mode, curtains shut – but Eggsy has been living and working with Harry long enough to see the signs. The weapons drawer has been rearmed, for example, meaning something was removed from it. And since Harry doesn’t wield cold iron weapons for everyday things, it can only mean a mission.

“You running away will _not_ spare you the row when you get home,” Eggsy grumbles, activating the computer and scanning his palm print to gain access. Merlin kicked him out of the candidate files, of course, but he still has access to Harry’s active mission logs, and when he expands it, a GPS tracker pops up.

In America.

Eggsy thumps his head on the desk. “Are you SERIOUS, Harry?” he moans.

The computer chimes, a gentle little ding, and Eggsy rolls his head to the side to glare at it. That’s the signal for an incoming message, although Eggsy can tell at a glance it’s not from Harry, which does not make things better. Grumpily, he taps to open, and glares at Merlin.

“What?” 

Merlin raises an eyebrow. “Lovers’ tiff?”

“Piss off, Merlin. What do you want?”

Fortunately, Merlin is either occupied with something or too busy laughing, because he doesn’t comment any further on Eggsy’s clearly disheveled state, or the fact that he didn’t accompany Harry to HQ hangar, as he has for Harry’s other missions. Instead he makes a hand motion, and Eggsy’s computer chimes again for a new message.

“I’ve got a set of readings, and I want you to confirm,” Merlin says shortly.

“Uh . . . don’t we have techs for this?”

“I need someone outside the system.”

“Wow, thanks.”

Merlin sighs. “I don’t have time for this, Eggsy. Harry is almost at the church, and I need to monitor him; Arthur wants to be patched in too, for live updates. Read the file and report back with your finds. Merlin out.”

Eggsy sticks his tongue out at the closed communication, but he still opens the file. Kingsman doesn’t really do audits, per se, since a certain level of secrecy and discretion is both welcomed and expected. However, knights can still be forced out, and the process does call for an independent assessment to confirm findings before a full scale investigation can be launched. If Eggsy wasn’t so pissed at the lot of them, he’d be excited.

The file, it turns out, is a bunch of numbers. Eggsy’s been around Kingsman long enough to recognize them as tracking codes – Kingsman assigns each person who steps onto the premises a distinct tracking code, logging their movements and then shelving everything in a particular file for a knight, support staff, or random customer – and Merlin has pulled out two in particular. These two enter the shop and then head straight to the briefing room, but then something strange happens. Normally, the tracking code would then be paired with the unique access code of whoever entered the briefing room when they used their fingerprints, but instead the codes register an override before the duo becomes a trio when someone else meets up with them. 

And Kingsman do not do overrides.

There are overrides, of course, in case of an internal attack or external discovery, but for coming into the shop and entering the briefing room? Even retired personnel still use access codes. 

Eggsy keeps reading the file, and the three people stay in the room for quite a while. There’s no audio attached, which is really weird, but then he spots another override, this one for the cold iron sensors. 

A chill creeps up Eggsy’s spine. Kingsman is predominantly made up of fae; the cold iron sensors are meant to go off ten times louder than the fire alarm or proximity breaches, because it’s just that dangerous. They are never meant to be turned off, ever, and have four sets of back-up generators. He didn’t even know those sensors _had_ an override, to be honest.

Finally, and most damning of all, when the two codes leave, the remaining person uses one final override: an audio wipe, reserved for when a Kingsman has been compromised and is making their last stand.

Eggsy opens a channel straight to Merlin, opens his mouth, and then falters, because Merlin is yelling. Really, really loudly.

“Galahad? Galahad! Harry! Harry, what the – ”

“. . . Merlin?”

“Not now, Eggsy!”

“Is it Harry?”

“Yes, it’s goddamn Harry, now let me try and figure out what the hell is going on!” Merlin snaps.

Eggsy scrambles to pull up the mission feed, which he only just now notices is flashing in the bottom of the screen from the mission logs. It probably automatically went live when Harry turned on the feed, but Eggsy silenced the alerts to concentrate on the codes, and now he sees that was a bad idea because Harry . . . 

“Oh my god,” Eggsy whispers.

Harry is absolutely _destroying_ every single person he comes into contact with, burning through his Kingsman weapons like he’s got an inexhaustible supply, and in between them using everything from his fists to guns to his wings to knock people around and utterly devastate his opponents. Eggsy can totally see why the fae were once described simultaneously as the fair folk and as the storm bringers, as Harry uses magic to throttle people, throw them into walls so hard their skulls crack, and burn them alive. 

“What the hell is wrong with him?” Eggsy demands.

Merlin is frantically typing, chest heaving like he’s running a marathon. “I don’t know! He was about to leave and then he just – he went berserk, just like they all did.”

“I’ll try to reach him,” Eggsy says, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen. He reaches out to their bond, something he’s never done before, and focuses with all his might on calling Harry to him. Harry had once said he needed only to think of him, and he would come, but Harry doesn’t even seem to notice now. It’s like the signal rebounds off an invisible force field.

Eggsy grips the chair, closes his eyes, and breathes. _You can do things no human can,_ Harry had said.

Eggsy inhales, exhales, and then thinks of butterflies and tea and aprons and suits and Mr. Pickle, everything he associates with Harry, his smile, his laugh, his early morning muttering when he’s woken up too early, the way he leaves his shoes everywhere and never empties the dishwasher and has to put half a bottle of product to get his hair to lay flat – he gathers it all up, and says, “ _Harry_.”

For a second, just a second, he feels the warmth of Harry’s magic on his neck, the collar that literally binds them together.

And then the cold creeps in, a burn Eggsy’s never felt in his life, like an icy dagger stabbing into his neck, and he’s thrown right out of it, gasping and clawing at his own neck. His fingers actually come away bloody, and when Eggsy looks at his reflection in the monitor, he sees the tell-tale silver burn of cold iron.

“Merlin, they’ve got cold iron and magic,” Eggsy says grimly. “If I reach out, I get bounced off, or worse – burned.”

Merlin freezes. “You shouldn’t be affected by cold iron.”

“Tell that to my bleeding neck.”

Merlin curses. “This is not good. Whatever is affecting it, it better stop soon, or he might burn up from fighting it – wait. Did he just. Did he stop?”

Harry has indeed stopped. He’s just standing there, horror etched on his face, blood splattered n his clothes and face, panting like a racehorse. He looks around, gaze picking up the slaughtered corpses of everyone who was fighting, and then he makes a beeline for the door, clearly deciding on a fast exit.

“I’m going to tell the jet to be ready immediately,” Merlin says.

Eggsy touches his collar, feeling the faint warmth of his bond with Harry, and whispers, “Just come home, Harry, please.”

Which is when Harry staggers out of the church to face down Valentine, the scary assistant lady, and a lot of people with a lot of guns.

* * *

Harry hits the ground hard, the very breath knocked out of him, and every time he tries to catch his breath, the pain seems to double. It makes sense, of course; cold iron is painful to make contact with, never mind when it’s burrowing deep into a fae’s head and bringing terrible, awful magic with it, the likes Harry hasn’t seen since the two Courts made peace millennia ago. 

He can tell Merlin is yelling something in his ear, but he can’t quite make out the words. Cold iron tends to wreak havoc on the senses, after all.

Well, physical ones.

Magical ones? Less so. They are the last things to leave a fae, after all.

 _Come back to me,_ Eggsy pleads through their bond. _Please come back to me – take whatever you need – Harry, please!_

He reeks of desperation, of rage, of guilt, but although the bond is designed for a two-way cooperation, every pathway can be closed off. Harry wheezes and clutches his fist tight, focusing on the pain of his hand, and slams the door shut, so that he can’t draw from Eggsy. The amount of energy it would take to heal this damage would kill Eggsy, drain him dry until his bones turned to ash and his mind splintered into pieces and his soul collapsed in on itself. And that’s assuming that this kind of damage could be healed, which Harry honestly doubts.

Every fae knows when Death comes knocking.

So instead, Harry squeezes his fist tighter, until he bleeds upon the earth. Fortunately, he was wounded in the fight inside the church, so it’s very easy. _Blood to bond,_ Harry thinks, _and blood to break._

Eggsy’s emotions are muted behind the door, but Harry can still feel them – taste the rage on his tongue, smell the grief, hear the pleas and the cries and screams. 

And Harry says, _Be free, my love. I consider this favor fulfilled. Let the bond between us be severed, so that you may be free. Live long and prosper._

And Harry smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Eggsy, Roxy, and Merlin go wreak havoc on Valentine.


	4. a favor demanded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggsy, Roxy, and Merlin go wreak havoc on Valentine.

Eggsy isn’t sure how long he lies on the floor. He knows his eyes are open, but he doesn’t register much. His heart beats, but it feels like it’s bleeding and cracking with each beat. His mind has come to a complete deadlock, unable to process anything but the worst thought of them all.

_Harry is dead._

And Harry could have pulled strength from him – he could have taken Eggsy’s energy to kick start his own healing, or at least tide him over – but instead he had slammed a wall down between them, leaving Eggsy out in the cold as he screamed and cried, before he had broken their bond entirely.

The wilted flowers and crumpled butterflies scattered around Eggsy are testament to that. 

The second Harry had cut the bond – had uttered those terrible, awful, agonizing words _I consider this favor fulfilled_ – the flowers and the butterflies had been begun peeling away from his skin. Eggsy had glowed so much he’d practically been a lightbulb, but the show had been short lived; the flowers had wilted, shriveling up like Eggsy had been their only source of water, and the butterflies taking wing to the ceiling had fallen to the floor like a storm had struck them all dead. It hadn’t been painful, but then the great Kingsman symbol had peeled away, falling into Eggsy’s lap with a thunk, and when Eggsy had looked down he had seen the medal Harry had once pressed into his baby hands so long ago, as beautiful and horrendous as it was back then.

That was when Eggsy had fallen to the ground, and cried and cried and _cried_.

Yet no matter what he did, he could not reach Harry anymore, with their bond so irreparably broken, first by Harry and then by death. Even when he scooped up some of the flowers and the butterflies and pressed them to his neck and wept, they’d remained limp and unmoving, just pieces of a shattered future. 

Just like everything else in Eggsy’s life.

Eventually, though, Eggsy forces himself to get up. He’s not stupid or naïve enough to think that Valentine will stop with killing Harry, and Merlin is likely going to need all the help he can get to bring Valentine down. And seeing as knights aren’t fully retired from the system until the Table gathers to commemorate them and officially begin the search for their replacement, Eggsy will still have access as Harry’s pet, and he might as well use it.

Eggsy takes the medal and hooks it back around his neck. It’s still as light as a feather, almost suspiciously so, but it’s cold against his skin and exactly what Eggsy needs to keep himself grounded. He stands up, wipes off his tears, readjusts his clothing, takes a deep breath, and then gets ready to leave the house.

* * *

The shop is closed, of course, by the time Eggsy gets to it. With his bond to Harry broken, Eggsy can no longer see the beautiful magic woven into the very foundations of the shop, but the guardian spells still know him, and so he is not hindered when he walks up to the door. He puts his hand on the door handle, angling it in the now-familiar pattern so that the tiny sensors can read his fingerprints, and then walks inside when he feels the lock disengage. Shadows appear on the floor, paw prints and a swishing tail, and Eggsy stands still and lets the magical guardian sniff him. Usually, he doesn’t need to bother because he comes during the day, but at night, the magical guardians come to life after hours, welcoming Kingsman or scaring off uninvited intruders. After a moment, it recognizes him and fades away, shadows rejoining the natural ones cast by the mannequins and fabric bolts.

Eggsy heads for the dressing room, aiming for the train and the path to HQ, but he stops when a voice calls out to him.

“Mr. Unwin? Is that you?”

It’s . . . not exactly the person Eggsy wanted to see, but if there’s one person Harry would have wanted Eggsy to be extra polite with, it’s Arthur. And so Eggsy takes a deep breath, turns around, and offers a short, neat bow. “Yes, sir. I’m on my way to HQ.”

Arthur steps into the shop proper. He looks like he’s aged twenty years, grim lines carved into his face, and for once he doesn’t give off the air of wanting to toss Eggsy into a gutter and leave in there. “Yes, I thought you might. We all have . . . a bad habit of working. To drown out our sorrows,” Arthur clarifies. “I was about to have a toast, as it were. Would you do an old man a favor and grant him some company?”

Eggsy raises his eyebrow. There’s only so much politeness in him, after all. “Aren’t the toasts mean for the Table?”

“I think, just this once, we can make an exception. You grieve for Galahad just as much as any of the rest of us.” 

Arthur turns around and walks upstairs. Grief has bent his back, but he still walks proud and strong, because even though Arthur is too important to send into the field, Arthur is, first and foremost, a Kingsman, and therefore keeps himself to some standard of dignity and physical exercise. Eggsy, meanwhile, just sighs and follows, hoping to wriggle out quickly and get to Merlin. 

When he gets to the briefing room, Arthur is busy tapping in an override code. 

“I could just – ” 

“Your access was linked to Harry’s access,” Arthur interrupts. He keys in the last number with a flourish and pushes the door open. “You still retain general access, as does any knight upon pending retirement, but specialized and mission critical access will be revoked. You can, for example, take the train to HQ or enter the shop, but taking a cab or entering briefing rooms would not be allowed anymore.”

“Oh,” Eggsy mutters, and shuffles into the room.

Arthur goes to the cabinet and starts taking out items – a tray, crystal glasses, a decanter. Eggsy settles himself into a seat and gazes about the room, noting the various screens, projectors, sensors, and hidden safes. Each Kingsman room has them, of course, but he’s never seen so many in one room before.

“The briefing room is one of the last safe retreat spaces,” Arthur explains, coming over to the table. He deftly sets the tray down and pours two small amounts of amber brandy into the glasses. “See the windows behind us? They’re rated to withstand almost anything, short of perhaps a missile.”

Eggsy winces and turns back around. “Let’s hope that never happens.”

“Agreed.” Arthur settles himself down, shifting in his chair to get comfortable. He sighs and cracks his neck to the left, and then says, rather cheerfully, “Old age gets to even the best of us, I’m afraid. Youths like you and young Lancelot will be our future. Don’t you agree?”

“Uh, yes,” Eggsy stammers, no idea what he’s agreeing to, because now that Arthur is close to him, he can see something he bets Arthur didn’t think he would know about.

A prominent scar on the side of his neck, and a very familiar pen clipped to his breast pocket.

_So you’ve got a ring that shocks people, a watch that shoots darts, a lighter that explodes, and a shoe that poisons. So what’s the pen do then, turn into a mobile phone?_

_Don’t be ridiculous, Eggsy. It’s used for our more discrete missions._

_Oh yeah? So what does it do, Harry?_

_Poison people, of course. Delayed activation, at a time and place of your convenience._

Eggsy looks at the pen again, and then at the glasses, and swallows. He already regrets turning around to look at the windows when Arthur gestured, but he’s not stupid enough to think Arthur would let such a chance pass him by. And knights can deliver the poison even in full view of guests, so he knows exactly what waits in his glass.

All at one, pieces begin to fall into place: the override codes, ones even more powerful than what Merlin or the Table knights have access to, which he just saw Arthur use; the two strange tracking codes that came into the shop, and the fact that they have never seen Valentine without his scary assistant with sword legs nearby; the scar on Arthur’s neck, an exact mirror to the scar on the Professor’s neck. It comes together to paint a rather damning picture, but Eggsy didn’t live as long as he has under Dean’s fists to panic at the first thought of someone wanting – or even trying – to kill him.

So Eggsy forces a smile, pretends to nod, and then gestures at the massive paintings on the wall. “So are these the founders of Kingsman then? Or are they like the TV screen and really just escape routes and weapon caches?”

And as Arthur turns and laughs and admits that, no, they’re just massive paintings of the stodgy old men who’d founded Kingsman, Eggsy reaches out and swaps the glasses, returning to his thoughtful pose just in time for Arthur to look at him again and not even notice. Sleight of hand, the one thing he’d been better than Harry at during their training sessions, because Eggsy had long ago learned the necessity of it to protect his mum and Daisy.

They drink to Harry, and Eggsy does not miss the gleam of satisfaction, there and gone in a second, that flashes through Arthur’s eyes as Eggsy drains his cup.

Well, if that’s how it’s going to be . . . 

“So why did you really bring me here, Arthur?” Eggsy asks, leaning back in his chair. “I know you don’t like me, even if you liked Harry. Probably it’s because I’m human, or because I’m not a blue-blooded snob, or maybe just because Harry took a shine to me instead of your poncy git of a candidate. Either way, I think you’d want me gone sooner rather than later.”

Arthur sets his glass very delicately down on the tray. He smooths his suit, straightens his tie, and looks Eggsy in the eye for, perhaps, the first time in their acquaintance. “There’s going to be a new world order soon,” Arthur says. “Harry was to take his place beside me, as my right hand, but circumstances rather . . . interfered. In Harry’s honor, I would invite you to take his place instead, and be a part of the new world.”

Eggsy nods slowly. “So, Valentine won you over then.” When Arthur tries to interrupt, probably with a pre-memorized speech of fancy things, Eggsy continues, “Did he tell you what was going to happen to achieve this new world order?”

“Sometimes a culling is the only way to ensure that a species survives. If we don’t do it, nature will. And history will see Valentine as the man who saved humanity from extinction.”

“Saved. That’s a funny word.” Eggsy leans forward, narrowing his eyes. “Did the fight down at the church look like it saved anyone, Arthur? I know you saw it. I know you were watching when that man shot Harry in the face with cursed cold iron.”

“A cull is the only hope,” Arthur replies coldly. “Harry’s sacrifice will save hundreds of others.”

“And yet the world’s population is, what, in the billions?” Eggsy smiles grimly. “So, if I get this right, Valentine is the _savior_ who gets to blow the horn of the apocalypse, but instead of God choosing who dies, he gets to pick and choose who gets culled? He gets to let his rich mates live, or people he thinks are worth saving, and everybody else is just SOL?”

“Valentine is offering us a path forward, an actual future,” Arthur says. “A choice. One I am extending to you.”

“Not much of a choice between dying horribly by poison or by exploding head, really.”

Arthur leans back in his chair. He looks like someone whose big announcement just got stolen by someone else, like a birthday boy being passed over because someone had a baby or got a promotion. Nevertheless, he rallies quickly, taking out the pen and holding it in his hand so the light can catch it.

“I see Galahad gave you a tour of the armory,” he murmurs.

Eggsy shrugs. “Well, it’d be hard to be a proper valet if I accidentally murdered him with one of your techno gadgets, right?”

Arthur straightens. He points the pen at Eggsy like a sword, and with his face and persona, it would almost pass for an awe-inspiring sight – but for the fact that he’s just a man holding a tiny pen, and also signed up to join the _link hands and drink toasts and celebrate as the world murders itself_ party. Kind of takes away from the glamor of it.

“It’s time,” Arthur intones. “Make your decision. Stand by me in Harry’s honor, or make way for the new world order.”

And, well, what other choice could Eggsy possibly make?

He shrugs. “I’d rather be with Harry. Thanks.”

“So be it.” Arthur clicks the pen with a final air of satisfaction, and then sets the pen down the table.

“Those are your idea of proper last words, are they?” Eggsy scoffs and shakes his head mournfully. “You lot have no imagination. Oh,” he adds, as Arthur stares at him in confusion as he fails to die, “and by the way: I switched the glasses when you weren’t looking. Payback for poisoning the glass when I wasn’t looking. Ta!”

Arthur gasps and chokes and wheezes, and then he slumps forward and his head hits the table with a muted thump.

_That’s what you get for sending Harry to die,_ Eggsy thinks viciously. 

A chime rings out, and Eggsy jumps. It’s not an alert chime, so Arthur’s death didn’t set off anything in the room, but it still takes Eggsy a few seconds to realize that’s Arthur’s phone. He digs it out and looks at the screen, and his stomach sinks to the floor when he sees the purple Valentine logo and the ticking clock.

He has a feeling he knows what the countdown is for, and he doesn’t want to see what happened in the church replicated anywhere.

So Eggsy takes a deep breath, pockets the phone, digs out Arthur’s SIM card, takes his glasses for proof, and sets off to find Merlin.

* * *

Merlin is not alone, unfortunately, so the second Eggsy gets off the elevator and steps into Merlin’s domain, he gets a gun pointed out him. It’s the female candidate, Roxy – she must’ve been the one to pass the final tests, then. He didn’t think her capable of shooting her dog, because he’s seen her dote on that poodle, but then again, he didn’t think Harry would be capable either. Eggsy raises his hands, to show he’s not armed, and says, “Merlin, I got something you need to see.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow and leans away from his desk. On the projector screen is a still image of Arthur, slumped at the table, and Eggsy winces. Arthur’s override must’ve timed out. 

“Yes, I rather think you do,” Merlin says calmly. It’s not threatening in the least, but his wings are flared in a way Eggsy has never seen in all his time with Kingsman, which is not encouraging. “Slide the glasses over, lad.”

Eggsy doesn’t watch as Merlin replays the footage. He keeps his eyes trained on Roxy’s gun, because he’s seen her range scores and does not want to take a chance against that kind of accuracy. Fortunately, the video feed speaks for itself, and in the corner of his eye, Eggsy can see Merlin’s face go from shocked to ashen to outraged.

“It’s all right, Lancelot,” Merlin says after a moment. “It’s verified.”

Roxy looks at him, probably gauging him on the code words, before she nods shortly. She lowers her gun and holsters it, her wings relaxing against her back. She’s not wearing a Kingsman made suit – Eggsy can spot those across the street – but she is wearing basic Kingsman tech, so she must have been undergoing orientation when Eggsy intruded. She folds her hands behind her back, settling into parade rest, and Eggsy wonders just how many Kingsman knights sent their sons and daughters into service to train for the possibility of Kingsman.

“The tracking codes,” Eggsy says, “the ones that accompanied the override. Must’ve been Valentine and his assistant. I dunno how they found us.”

“It doesn’t really matter now, to be honest,” Merlin replies. “What matters if we have to stop Valentine, before he turns the entire world into a planet-wide gladiator arena. And seeing as we have no idea who we can trust – and I’m not taking the time to video surveil our knights and check if their necks are clean – it’s going to up to us three.” Merlin keys in a few quick commands on his console and then stands. “Alright, as of now, Roxy, Eggsy, you’ve been given emergency clearance, equivalent to a knight. Eggsy, get the jet ready; Roxy, get together a bag from the armory; I’ll start downloading schematics and locking down HQ. Now move out!”

* * *

Merlin is the last to board the plane, and he brings onboard an enormous bag full of weird-shaped parts that clunk and thud as he sets it down. Roxy and Eggsy both give it side eyes, and then have to struggle not to laugh as Merlin stomps into the front of the plane to take over piloting from the autopilot.

“Roxanne Morton,” she says, offering her hand to him, a smile on her face. “Call me Roxy.”

Eggsy takes her hand and shakes it, but he also does a little bow in his seat, just to make her laugh. “Gary Unwin. Call me Eggsy. I belong to – belonged . . . belonged to Galahad.”

“I know,” Roxy says, an almost wistful tone in her voice. “We can tell, you know. When a bond has been broken. They call it fae-touched, because your eyes were opened, but you’re still human, at the end of it.”

Eggsy shifts uncomfortably. It’s still a little too raw, a little too painful, but Merlin chooses that moment to burst back in, already talking a mile a minute.

“Alright, so we’re going to utilize a two-pronged plan of attack,” he announces. “Firstly, Valentine’s signal relies on a chain of satellites orbiting the globe. We are going to break the chain, using this personal trans-atmospheric vehicle. It’s only a basic prototype, but it should get the trick done. Secondly, we are going to send someone in posing as Chester King – Arthur – so that I can get into Valentine’s system to shut everything down for good from the inside as well.”

Roxy and Eggsy nod as one, falling back on the habit of listening to Merlin give orders and following them.

Merlin surveys them grimly, and then sighs. “It’s not perfect, but we don’t have a choice. Eggsy, this plane is equipped with a halo suit; you’ll be getting into it to shut down the satellite. Lancelot, you’ll be masquerading as Chester King using his phone and a Kingsman glamor; their system likely has him registered as a fae, so when they scan you, it’ll confirm that status. Any questions? No? Suit up?”

There’s only one bathroom, so Eggsy gestures for Roxy to take it while he ducks into a tiny Kingsman closet. The halo suit isn’t exactly form fitting, but it gets the job done, and even though Eggsy can’t see magic anymore, he knows from experience that when he seals the helmet on, the spells will activate to protect the suit’s integrity, enhancing its resistance to damage and expanding its oxygen capacity. 

That being said, he’s still dressed and ready to go long before Roxy is ready. She steps out dressed in a very nice suit, snug as a glove and flared at the waist, with her hair swept in a gorgeous updo and a delicate necklace around her waist. 

She steps to the table to put on her watch, signet ring, glasses, and other Kingsman gadgets, and Eggsy leans back in his seat and whistles.

“Looking good, Lancelot,” Eggsy says, and snaps off a salute. 

“Looking is only half the battle,” Roxy replies, but a pleased flush brightens her cheeks. “Even a Kingsman glamor spell will only go so far; I’ll have to adopt some of Arthur’s mannerisms to really sell the picture.”

“So what, you gotta shuffle along like an old man?”

Roxy grins, shaking her head, and reaches up to touch the necklace around her neck. It has a strange symbol on it, like a little cup, and Roxy closes her eyes and murmurs something under her breath. A strange shimmer fills the air, like steam in front of a rainbow, and Roxy’s outline – there’s no other word for it – _ripples_ , like she’s a reflection in a pool, and when Eggsy can finally focus on her again, she looks exactly like Arthur, white hair and wrinkles and all.

Eggsy whistles again. “Now _that_ is impressive.”

Roxy-wearing-Arthur does a little curtsy, and it’s so disorientating that Eggsy nearly chokes on his water. “Thank you very much,” Roxy says, and it’s even Arthur’s old-man voice coming out of her throat.

“You’re gonna crush ‘em, Rox,” Eggsy says, leaning forward to offer his fist, and grins when she bumps fists with him.

“If you two are done fooling around,” Merlin interrupts via the intercom, “Eggsy, we’re approaching the drop point. Put your helmet on.”

* * *

Eggsy is not exactly scared of heights – gymnastics and parkour assuaged that fear before it started – but he thinks anyone would be a bit nervous to sit in a prototype chair that looks more like a carnival ride seat than anything anyone should be riding into the atmosphere and slowly start ascending. 

Merlin just gives him a dry look and a final repetition of the plan, but Roxy, the wonderful lady that she is, actually steps forward and grasps his hands within hers as he starts rising up.

“You can do this, Eggsy,” she says, sure and immovable as stone. “We’re going to save the world, you and I.”

Eggsy has to grin at her for that. “Hell yeah, we are.”

“Hey, time is not our friend!” Merlin yells from the plane door. “Let’s get a move on!”

Roxy squeezes his hands one last time and then runs off without a backwards glance, and Eggsy gets a bird’s eye view as the plane roars to life and lifts off, soaring into the sky and heading towards Valentine’s stronghold, thanks to the data Merlin mined from Arthur’s phone. Eggsy gives them a jaunty salute and says, “Give ‘em hell, Roxy.”

Then he looks up, and up, and up, and wonders how long it will take him to reach the stars.

* * *

The plan goes to hell, which is really to be expected given that it’s a Kingsman plan. On Eggsy’s side, he’s got his shot lined up perfectly, targeting locked and missile ready, when one of his balloons decide now is the perfect time to blow, sending Eggsy’s chair plummeting downwards until he hands sideways and has to jerk his hand away from the controller before he loses his one and only missile at thin air.

For Roxy, well. 

Eggsy listens to the chaos and shouting and grunting, and says, “Ro – Lancelot, is everything . . . all right?”

“She ran into Charlie, and he was trained on Kingsman glamors same as her,” Merlin says grimly. “Fortunately she was able to get me access before – go left and into the tunnel, four guards ahead and two behind! And Eggsy, tune out our chatter and focus on that missile! Your other balloon is going to blow and the countdown clock is ticking!”

“Hey, you put us all on the same channel,” Eggsy retorts, but he grabs the controller again and squints at the satellite, lining it up until he has a target lock again.

Eggsy takes a deep breath, thinks of his mum and Daisy and Jamal and Ryan and everyone else on earth, and fires.

He has exactly one second to grin when he sees the missile take off before his other balloon pops with a thunderous noise and sends him shooting back down to earth, flailing in wild circles due to the uneven weight balance of the prototype. The halo suit’s protective spells keep the nausea and dizziness at bay, but they can’t do much for his roiling gut as he sees Valentine’s countdown on his display get ever closer to 0. He holds his breath and prays, listening to Merlin’s rapid fire commands to Roxy regarding guard counts and directions and his own muttering as he worms his way into Valentine’s system.

They are 11 seconds away from 0 when Merlin abruptly yells, “Eggsy, release now!” 

Eggsy fumbles at his straps, struggling to get them to release, and then he’s freefalling, spinning in wild circles. He feels a bit like he’s jumped off a high swing and then the ground fell away before he connected, but he doesn’t have time for the fear, because the countdown clock goes _5, 4, 3, 2, 1_ and Eggsy prays for everything to go right, just once in his life.

The countdown clock hits zero, flashing black and purple, and Eggsy holds his breath.

Then Merlin’s voice comes back over the chat, saying the blessed words: “Well done, both of you! The satellite is down, so should give me more time to bypass Valentine’s security. Eggsy, when you land, trigger your beacon so we can find you; Lancelot, get back to the plane so we can take – oh. Oh no.”

“What’s wrong?” Roxy and Eggsy say in tandem, because anything that makes Merlin go _oh no_ cannot be good.

“Valentine was using a biometric scanner for his signal,” Merlin says grimly. “I can’t hack that, and seeing as the scanner is made of cold iron, glamors won’t fool it. Lancelot, change of plans: come here to resupply and then you’ll need to head back out. The only way we’re shutting it down is to make sure Valentine never touches that desk again.”

Roxy’s voice is grim as she acknowledges the order. It makes Eggsy wince; while he understands that Kingsman do kill, it’s the first time he’s heard a direct order as such, and he knows that they set out on this mission with the idea of hacking Valentine’s systems as the end goal. 

But then again, he doubts any prison could hold Valentine, even if they could convict him.

Still: “What about all the guards?” Eggsy asks. The armory on the plane is good, but not take-down-an-entire-mountain-base good.

“We’ll have to be inventive,” Merlin says crisply. “Leave that weapon for me, lass, and take everything else. Drop the glamor, it’ll just waste your energy. Put everything into shielding yourself and expanding your pockets. I’ll follow along from your glasses and work at shutting down all the other security measures . . .”

Eggsy hits the soft snow of the ground, rolling a few times to absorb the shock, and then lies flat on his back, panting, and prays.

* * *

“Oh, no,” Merlin says, and Eggsy sits bolt upright.

“What?”

“Lancelot, get a move on!” Merlin bellows in the microphone, which makes Eggsy wince. “Valentine’s using someone else’s satellite – he’s going to reconnect the chain, and it’ll take him a lot less time. It’s already at twenty percent!”

“Merlin,” Roxy pants in response. Shots ring out next to hear, and although she makes no sound of pain, Eggsy still can hear it in her voice. “Merlin, they’ve got me trapped. I’m out of grenades, and they’ve got cold iron vests, so I can’t just throw them. Walls and ceiling and floor are lined with cold iron wires so I can’t go through there. I can’t make it.”

Eggsy hisses. “Where does this guy get so much cold iron?!”

“I’ve got bigger problems right now,” Merlin says, sounding distracted. “Missile launcher aimed right at me. That’s a bigger grade that this plane’s protective spells are rated for.”

Eggsy can picture it now, even so far away: Merlin exploding in a fiery mess, Roxy exploding as cold iron bullets are loaded into her, the entire damn world exploding due to Valentine’s signal, fire and death and destruction, and he wonders, briefly, wildly, _How did we get here?_. Which is a stupid question, really, they’d been damned from the moment that Professor’s head had exploded because Valentine had – 

“Hey, Merlin,” Eggsy says slowly, “remember how Valentine can explode the implants? What do you wanna bet that all of his guards have them?”

There’s dead silence for a very, very long moment, and then Merlin curses, shuffles, and starts typing. And Eggsy has immense faith in Merlin’s talent, but he can’t help but count each heartbeat, each inhale, each moment as he sees Valentine’s surrogate satellite inch closer to complete the chain, and wonder if even Merlin can do it.

Fortunately, though, Merlin lets out a pleased huff and says “Why, yes please.”

Distant explosions go off; Eggsy can hear them echoing through Roxy’s mic. Roxy gives out a little yelp, because it’s probably her first experience with exploding heads and Eggsy winces, a little, but then she recovers enough to say, “Well, that’s . . . something.”

“That was spectacular,” Merlin corrects. “Well, Lancelot, your path to Valentine is clear. Unfortunately it looks like he was smart enough not to put an implant into his head so – Lancelot, are you listening to me?”

“Ah,” Roxy says, and she has such a weird tone of voice that Eggsy instinctively squints even though he knows he can’t see her. He’s never heard Roxy like that before, no matter what Merlin threw at her, almost as if she’s . . . embarrassed. “I’ve uh. Found all the missing people Valentine kidnapped, Merlin. While I take care of Valentine, can you work on – ”

“Yes, I can and I will, but first you need to _get to Valentine_.”

“Yes, Merlin. Of course. Oh, and one of the soldiers dropped a missile launcher. How kind. I think this’ll come in handy.”

* * *

After Roxy takes care of Valentine rather expediently by simply shooting out the glass and then launching a missile straight into the command room, exploding the desk, Valentine, and his scary assistant, the effort then turns into a mass evacuation. As the plan of getting Eggsy in the jet is null and void, Merlin instead sends a Kingsman plane to get Eggsy and then he coordinates the mass evacuation from the hangar. Roxy and Eggsy spend hours unlocking cells, identifying the victims, and then splitting people up so that they can be ferried home in batches. It’s difficult and exhausting and tedious, and even when other intelligence agencies start showing up to help, it still takes absolutely forever.

By the end of the effort, Roxy and Eggsy collapse on the floor of the jet, still bloody and sweaty and not-at-all presentable, and just stare at the ceiling.

“Congrats on your first mission?” Eggsy says, after a long while when he finally feels like he can actually talk.

Roxy moans and turns her head away. “I don’t want to even _think_ about how long this report will be when I type it up,” she says mournfully. “Not to mention downloading and editing the footage for submittal.”

“Ugh,” Eggsy says. “I don’t even want to think about the footage.”

Merlin gives them both an exasperated look when he finally gets back to the plane, but he doesn’t make them sit up, probably because he heads straight for the couch, sits down, and takes a long swig of whiskey. 

“You two need a long shower,” he remarks. “You might want to use the flight back to HQ to do it, because the work won’t stop once we land.”

“How is HQ?” Roxy asks.

Merlin shrugs. “Won’t know ‘til I lay eyes on it, but Morgause reported in. We’ve lost a few knights, either due to the implants or because they were caught in the wave of fighting, and we’ve lost complete contact with some of more remote branches, but there’s nothing to be done about that now. We’ll need to head back to HQ and start sorting out who died and how, and of course a new Arthur will need to be elected. Lancelot, you’ll get a vote, but I’m afraid you won’t be eligible.”

“Fine with me.”

Eggsy pushes himself up on one elbow. “What about Harry’s body? Don’t we need to go get it?”

Roxy and Merlin look at him, and then at each other, and then at him again, so Eggsy says, “What?”

“Eggsy,” Roxy says delicately, with the air of peeling off a bomb cover to get at the wires beneath, “fae don’t . . . leave bodies. When they die. At least, not for long. After a day or two, our magic returns to where it came from, and we become, say, flowers or trees or something.”

“So let’s go collect Harry’s bouquet, what’s wrong with that?”

Merlin shakes his head. “There won’t be one, lad. Harry died by cold iron. That would keep his magic trapped within him. He’d just crumble to dust. He’s probably already floating in the wind somewhere, to be honest.”

“. . . Oh,” Eggsy says, because what else is there to say?

He shakes off Roxy’s hand – gently, but firmly – and avoids Merlin’s sympathetic eyes, and heads for the shower, mostly because he has no idea what to do with that information and needs to do _something_. He’d known, of course, that fae deaths are a little different than human ones, but he’d never exactly done a lot of research about it. For some reason, he’d imagined growing old with Harry, still nagging him about leaving Kingsman tech on the table and laughing about him mixing up Star Wars with Star Trek and mocking him for running of space for his million preserved butterflies. Collar or no collar, bond or no, Harry had remained in the picture whenever he’d thought about the future. 

And now . . . he won’t be.

Eggsy turns on the shower to full blast, hot as he can stand it, and jumps inside.

* * *

It finally hits Eggsy when they get off the plane. Not because they’re back in HQ, in the hangar Harry loved; not because they’re fresh off a successful mission; not even because he spots the reports about the new so-called Valentine’s Day that are floating around. 

No, what gets Eggsy is the fact that along with the personnel and support staff coming up to greet them, one particular guest is fast, furry, four-legged, and bowls Roxy off with barks and licks.

“Duchess!” Roxy gasps. “Duchess, oh – come on – oh alright.”

Eggsy stares, brain unable to compute. Duchess is the name for Roxy’s poodle, a tall and proud dog that Roxy handpicked and trained during the course of her Kingsman candidacy. Eggsy had helped take care of the dogs that weren’t chosen, and he’d had a lot of fun taking care of the dogs that had been returned to Kingsman when the candidates washed out. He’d also dogsitted sometimes, when candidates were sent to overnight missions. He knows Duchess.

He also knows Roxy was supposed to shoot Duchess in order to pass the dog test.

And right now, given that Eggsy is exhausted and wiped out, instead of pulling Roxy aside or messaging her, he just blurts out, “I thought Duchess was dead.”

Roxy gives him an odd look, at first. “I’m not that bad of a dog owner, Eggsy.”

“But you were supposed to shoot . . . ”

Roxy’s face clears immediately. She pushes herself to her feet, getting Duchess to calm down and hush with a few clicks, and then takes Eggsy by the hand and draws him to the side. Her beautiful purple and silver wings unfurl, like sails, and rise to the sides to give them the illusion of privacy as Roxy clutches as Eggsy’s hands.

“Eggsy,” Roxy says gently, “they were blanks. Kingsman just wanted to test if I could trust them, and I did. I trusted Merlin.”

Just like that, Eggsy remembers Mr. Pickle – the white frosted ends of his fur, the wrinkles on his face, the worn out paws, all pointing to a long life and a long life well lived – and realizes why he could never put together man-who-shoots-dog with Harry: because Harry didn’t shoot his dog. Harry fired a blank, because Harry trusted Kingsman, and Roxy trusted Kingsman, and Eggsy should have trusted Kingsman, and – 

Eggsy crumples to the ground, folded in Roxy’s arms with Duchess nosing worriedly at them both, and lets the tears come out.

* * *

Eggsy isn’t sure how long he mourns. He learned a long time ago that grief is immeasurable, and that was back when his young mind couldn’t really understand why Da wasn’t coming around. Now, having spent so long with Harry – learning who he was, watching him fight, eating meals with him – it’s a thousand times worse. It feels like part of him is, quite literally, gone, having peeled away when his collar did, and now he is inhabiting a body and mind that’s too large for little old him. 

Roxy comes to see him, of course. She brings gossip and food and Duchess, and at least Duchess makes him smile. Merlin comes by once or twice, mostly to let him know that he’s retaining his access because Kingsman has lost a lot of people and they need everyone they can get. Even Alice comes by, grease-stained and smiling, to make some conversation.

“I hear you helped save the world,” she says, pushing some papers off the table and making herself some tea. “Nice work for a rookie.”

Eggsy cranes his head around. “I was here for months, you know.”

“You’re a rookie until you survive your first mission,” Alice replies patiently. “So. How was it?”

Eggsy sighs and trudges over the table. He nibbles on one of her offered biscuits, because Harry drilled politeness into him, but it tastes like sawdust. “Exhausting.”

Alice’s eyes are knowing as she nods. “Yeah. Losing someone . . . it takes the wind out of you.”

Which is when Eggsy remembers that Alice has lost someone too, and in much the same way. It makes her tick of rubbing at her neck make a lot more sense now; Eggsy’s certainly been doing it ever since he lost Harry. He looks at her, really looks at her, and asks, “How’d you get over it?”

Alice shrugs. “You don’t. Not really. I still carry him whenever I go,” she says softly, touching her neck again. “But the grief lessened, eventually. Kingsman has a bereavement policy, you know; I took a year off, traveled a bit, saw some sights. Eventually I missed home enough that I came home and just started working again.” She pauses. “Unfortunately, fae don’t really do funerals, so . . . no closure that way.”

“Yeah, Merlin told me if death is by cold iron . . . you just get ash.”

“Yep.” She takes a long sip of tea, and Eggsy’s been around Kingsman long enough to know their trademark ways to hide emotional reactions. “Sometimes I go walking along the river, just to see the flowers there. It was his favorite spot. No surprise, because it’s one of the doors to the Court, but it still helps whenever I miss him.”

Eggsy looks up in surprise. “There’s a door to the Court by HQ?”

“You really think we’d build HQ anywhere that wasn’t close by?” Alice says with a laugh. “Being closer to the Court helps keep the magic strong, for starters. But also, all fae tend to go home whenever the Court does a handover – to be witnesses, and all that. Apparently sometimes the new King and Queen will grant a boon on one of the witnesses, if they feel like being kind.”

“What kind of boon?”

“Anything within their power. And if you thought Arthur or Merlin were strong, the King and Queen could blow them out of the park. Literally.”

On any other day, Eggsy might take note of that and leave it in a file to think over, but right now, all that happens is his mind is seized by a terrible thought. The strongest of the fae, the warriors who had decimated the human armies so long ago, they had commanded the earth itself, the seas and the winds and the trees, but that had only been the smallest of their powers. Some fae could stop time itself, stepping into the river of time and acting as a dam for as long as they chose before they let it flow again. And if they can master time and space, well, there’s only one thing left.

Eggsy sets down his cup. “Do you think the King and Queen know how to raise the dead?”

Alice startles. She doesn’t drop her cup, but it’s a near thing; she definitely rocks back in her chair. “Death is beyond the domain of magic, Eggsy,” she says uneasily. “You know that. Even the fae don’t dare bargain with Death. Death just . . . is.”

“Do you really think they haven’t tried?”

“I’m sure some enterprising fae has. But I doubt they’d ever tell us if they failed.”

Eggsy looks to the mantel, where one wilting flower and one motionless butterfly sit suspended in glass, preserved by Roxy as a favor to Eggsy. Their color has leached away and they look more dead than alive, but they’re one of the only remembrances Eggsy has of Harry that aren’t Kingsman property. 

Alice follows his gaze and sighs. “Eggsy, Harry wouldn’t want you to waste the rest of your life looking for an impossible way to bring him back. He wanted you to live. That’s why he cut the bond.”

“My favor to him was not fulfilled,” Eggsy says. “He shouldn’t have cut the bond.”

“But he did,” Alice says, her voice firm. “The fae decides when the collaring is finished, not the human. And you know as well as I do that bringing someone back from the dead is impossible, never mind bringing back a fae killed by cold iron.”

“We are Kingsman. Impossible is what we do.”

“But not this, Eggsy. Not this.”

“If you could bring him back,” Eggsy says, catching her gaze and looking into her eyes, “if you could, if there was even the slightest possibility of bringing him back, wouldn’t you?”

Alice’s shoulder slump. Eggsy’s looked up her file; he knows that her fae died nearly thirty years ago, that the mission was put on indefinite hold until the knight’s seat had been filled and the replacement had been sent to finish the job, and that completion of the mission – and a rather explosive completion – had forever earned Harry his trademark reputation for explosive missions. The Galahad style, as it was, passed from predecessor to successor.

“If you could bring Galahad back,” Eggsy repeats, “your Galahad, wouldn’t you?”

Alice’s answer is so quiet he can barely hear it, but it doesn’t really matter. He already knows her answer. After all, traveling around the world can fit in many things besides seeing the sights.

“Yes,” Alice says.

* * *

There are two fae Courts – the Seelie and the Unseelie – but only one is ever in power. Such is the truce that was struck millennia ago by the fae of old, long after they’d reduced the world to volcanic ash in a titanic struggle but, fortunately, long before they’d turned such destructive power upon the human race. They switch at the solstice, performing a ceremony of handover that turns one King and one Queen into a Lord and a Lady, and raises one Lord and one Lady into a King and Queen. As it takes place in the fae lands, no human may witness it.

Or, at least, no human whose eyes are blind to magic.

Eggsy, with Harry’s medallion round his neck and the lingering effects of Harry’s magic in his mind, can see the ceremony: can see the solemn procession of fae with dark wings and eyes of ice and robes of silver-white entering the court, can see the fae with summer wings and eyes of gold slowly rising and leaving their place in the circle of the court one by one, can see the giant glowing orb floating above the Court slowly dim, like a sun going behind the clouds, as ice crawls around it. There are no words spoken, because this handover is as old as time, and each fae knows what must be done. To break the tradition would be to break the truce, and probably destroy the world.

Finally, when all the seats in the half circle of the Court are filled but two, the King and Queen rise. They are dressed richly, in robes of purples and blues and reds and golds, and bear two crowns upon their heads. The Queen removes her crown first, and all of the color and shape bleeds out of it, until it is simply a simple circlet of cloudlike gray that she leaves reverently upon the seat. The King follows suit, and his crown also reduces to a simple circlet. Then the King takes the Queen’s hand and descends down the steps, slowly and purposefully, as the Lord and Lady of the Unseelie Court approach.

The Unseelie Court Lord and Lady are vastly different. Their robes are in shades of shadow and grays and whites, like a winter snow storm, and as they walk, the leaves and flowers their robes flow over change, shifting into muted, darker colors and gaining thorns and spines. Yet with each ascending step, their aura grows brighter and brighter, until it almost hurts to look at them, and Eggsy can’t even see where the old King and Queen have gone, for they have blended in with the crowd.

The Lord takes up his circlet first. From the moment he touches it, color flows through it again, like ink spilled in water, and spines stretch up and down to make a truly fearsome crown. When he sets it upon his head, he is undeniably the King of the Court, yet he waits patiently for his Lady to follow suit.

The Lady’s circlet undergoes a similar transformation, but much subtler; hers are the colors of a winter storm, icy whites and overcast skies and gray-blue seas. When she becomes Queen of the Court by placing it upon her head, the glowing orb above the Court flares up brightly, like a lightning flash, and then settles, ringed in ice and glowing icy-white, to signal the brand new Court.

“So it is done,” says the King, and sits.

“So it is done,” chant the crowd and, as one, they bow, wings folded back respectfully and eyes lowered to the ground, to recognize the new Court.

Eggsy bows, if only to ensure he does not stand out, but it turns out to be a useless endeavor. When he rises, he finds the King’s sharp eyes upon him, a cruel smile upon his face, and his smile only grows wider when Eggsy does not flinch or blink.

“Well, well, well,” says the King, “it has been so long since a human graced us for such a momentous occasion! What brings you to the Unseelie Court, Gary Eggsy Unwin?”

Eggsy’s feet stutter forward without his consent; each syllable of his name is like a yanking upon a chain connected to his waist that he didn’t even know existed. Yet he regains his balance, smoothing out his steps as he gets closer, and raises his head to look upon the King and Queen as they sit in their resplendent thrones. They are tall and terrifying and absolutely inhuman, but then again, Harry had been tall and terrifying and inhuman to Eggsy’s eyes once, and he’d fallen in love with the bastard.

Eggsy clears his throat and lifts his head. “Thank you for allowing me to witness this ceremony, Your Majesties.”

“It is tradition,” the King says, leaning back in his throne, “that all are welcome, and none be barred. We are honored to host you. You must be hungry – it will be wonderful for you to join us in our coronation feast.”

“Thank you,” Eggsy replies, as polite as he can, “but I made sure to pack my own food. I was uninvited, after all. And traveling to the Court takes energy.”

“And it takes magic,” says the King. “You have had your eyes opened, and yet you stand before us with no owner behind you. Who was it, that took your neck and placed a collar upon it to show you our world?”

Eggsy swallows. It’s a difficult, cruel question, and the King knows for it, for the King and Queen always know when a fae dies, and furthermore, they must know that fae who enter the human world often take on a human name, for names have power. Even Kingsman’s most secure files do not contain the true names of their agents, even if it has details on everything else that might be incriminating, embarrassing, or personal.

“In the human world, he took the name Harry Hart.”

Something changes in the King’s face. Eggsy can’t name the emotion, for it flashes too quickly and is far too inhuman, but it makes him clench his fist very tightly, and uneasy whispers race through the crowd. In the end, it is the Queen who places a calming hand upon the King’s fist, and leans forward to continue the conversation.

“He is known to us,” the Queen says, her voice ringing like bells in the wind. “But he is no concern of ours or yours anymore, child. He is in Death’s domain now. So why have you come here?”

“I came here because the favor I owed him was unfilled,” Eggsy says, “and I would fulfill my obligation to him.”

The Queen shrugs. “If he considered it fulfilled, then it was,” she says simply. “Thus is the law.”

Eggsy raises an eyebrow. “So you would rather leave a favor unfilled, just because Harry happened to like me?”

_That_ gets the King’s attention. He leans forward, wings rising behind his back, and his eyes are sharp and narrowed like a hawk who has spotted a mouse. Little snowflakes fall from his robes, a sign of the pure power of the King, and the air swirls with whispers and unease throughout the Court.

“What do you want from us, Gary Eggsy Unwin?” the King asks. “It is tradition for us to grant a boon, and you sound like someone who will ask for an interesting one.”

“I demand the right to fulfill my favor to Harry,” Eggsy answers. “I demand to know how to raise someone from the dead. And if you will not help me, then I’ll add some motivation. After all, I’m sure you’ll want to help yourselves.”

So saying, he removes his hands from his pockets, revealing the grenade with dead man’s switches, filled to the brim with cold iron shards, and raises it above his head.

And as the Court explodes into commotion, Eggsy grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Eggsy has a nice little chat with Death.


	5. a favor earned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggsy has a nice little chat with Death. "Only death can pay for life."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning: Harry's resurrection isn't pretty, but I don't go that deep into detail. Just be warned there's some blood and guts.
> 
> Inspirations (that show their head more blatantly this chapter): Game of Thrones, Supernatural, Terry Prachett, Once Upon A Time, Doctor Who, Harry Potter.

_Once upon a time, a fae and a human got into an argument, and they summoned Death to act as witness and mediator and judge._

_“What am I to judge?” said Death, ancient and patient beyond measure._

_“The definition of a favor,” came the answer._

_And Death heard the words of the fae and the human, and Death hummed and hawed, and Death thought and considered. Finally, after a full dance of the sun and moon, Death stirred, and looked to the fae and the human._

_And Death said, “You are both right, and you are both wrong. When you have lived as long as I, you shall understand that a favor is so much more. Thus is my judgment.”_

_And the fae and the human looked at each other, and shrugged, and for neither understood. Death did not chastise them, but nor was Death surprised. They were so young, after all, so full of life and promise. Only when Death came to guide them into the next life would they be able to understand, and Death could see that it would be many years before that time came to meet with the fae and the human._

_So the fae and human, as one, bowed to Death, and said, “So what is the definition of a favor?”_

* * *

Eventually, the commotion in the Court dies down. The fae look to the King and Queen, a thousand eyes and a thousand wings and a thousand faces, and Eggsy looks too, for he relishes in the surprise in their eyes. It’s not the first time he’s surprised a fae, but it may be his last, so he’ll take whatever he can get.

Fortunately, the King and Queen do not obliterate Eggsy where he stands. The King actually laughs, full bellied and loud, echoing through the air like a stampede of elephants, while the Queen joins in, adding peals of tinkling icicles to her King. 

“Trust Hart to choose a pet of such power,” says the King to the Queen, as if confiding a joke behind a napkin and not speaking to an entire court.

“Indeed,” says the Queen. She tilts her head, eyes sharp as a hawk seeking a tiny mouse tail in a field. “But Hart was always fond of humans. I suppose even the best of us must have some flaw.”

The King scoffs. “Flaw? Look at this boy. He practically is overflowing with potential. He could be the greatest source the Court has ever seen.”

“But he won’t be,” the Queen says, a chiding tone in her voice, and lays a hand upon her King’s arm. “For he is set on his quest, and we do not take the unwilling.”

“No. We do not.”

The Queen looks to Eggsy. “I am truly sorry, my dear,” she says. “But raising the dead is beyond the power of the Court. Even were I to stand here with my King and with the King and Queen of the Summer Court at full power, we would not be enough. Death and Life came into existence together, and no other being is their equal. Harry Hart has passed into Death’s domain, and none can call him back from it.”

Normally, Eggsy’s first instinct would be to call the Queen a liar, but she is a fae, and fae do not lie. 

Still: “Fae are not bound to tell the truth,” Eggsy remarks.

“I have nothing to gain by telling a lie,” the Queen replies. “Harry Hart was among the most powerful of the Court. We lost a warrior as much as you lost one.”

“Harry wouldn’t have fought in your wars.”

“We will never know,” says the King. “For he is gone now, from this Court and this world and this life. Make your peace with it, Gary Eggsy Unwin, for nothing can change the course of Death’s will. Death answers to no one.”

Eggsy wants to stomp his feet in frustration, but his time with Kingsman has changed him. Harry taught him to listen very carefully, to pick out seeds of half-truths and the signs of hidden stories, and Eggsy learned very well. And the King and Queen are full of seeds and signs – there is something they have, one last card to play, one last story to be told.

So Eggsy says, “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Are you accusing me of lying to you?” the King says, voice as soft as thunder in the distance, lightning flashing in his eyes.

Eggsy shrugs. He can see the way the King and Queen eye his hands, the way his finger rests on the deadman’s switch, and he can tell they’re itching to strike. Yet they are the King and Queen for a reason, and they know that no magic can tamper with cold iron weapons. “I asked what else there was. Not my fault if your mind jumped to lying.”

The King swells with anger, wings fanning up and out, but the Queen squeezes his arm, very lightly, and he deflates like a balloon, complete with tinkling sounds as the frost he summoned begins to swirl to the ground.

“There is a story,” says the Queen. “A nursery tale, as it were. I am surprised you have not heard it.”

“I’m human,” Eggsy reminds them.

“It involves a human,” the Queen replies. She leans back in her throne, the picture of innocence, and tilts her head. “And a fae. It goes, _Once upon a time, a fae and a human got into an argument, and they summoned Death to act as witness and mediator and judge._ ”

Silence falls upon the Court as she speaks. Every fae goes still as stone, not even breathing, and Eggsy feels like he’s traveled back in time, hearing words that no human should be able to hear. Even the King seems enraptured by the words, and if what they say is true – if Death existed long before the fae – then it makes sense. Death, the one true equalizer of fae and humans both.

Death, who is apparently a being that can be summoned. 

“And it is said that they asked Death to judge the definition of a favor, and Death listed to the human and the fae, and Death declared them both wrong,” the Queen continues. “And then Death departed, for Death answers to no one, and should not be seen except the day Death comes for you.”

“Yet these two managed,” Eggsy says.

“Yes. They managed.” The Queen smiles, a curve upon her lips, like a tsunami wave before it crashes upon the story. “Do you believe in nursery tales, Gary Eggsy Unwin?”

“A few days ago, I didn’t believe a human could witness a Court coronation. A few weeks ago, I didn’t believe that anyone would try and destroy the entire world. A few months ago, I didn’t believe that a secret international spy agency could have a base in a tailor shop near my home.” Eggsy settles his shoulders and inclines his head. “I’ll believe anything if it means I can get Harry back.”

The Queen looks at him, sober for the first time in their entire conversation. There is no sparkle in her eyes, no smile upon her lips, no twitch in her wings. If Eggsy closed his eyes and blotted out the wings, he’d say she looks rather like he does: someone determined and desperate and, above all else, willing to do anything. It makes Eggsy wonder who she has lost – and perhaps more importantly, if she only knows about the summoning of Death because she too has tried.

Eggsy isn’t foolish enough to ask, though. He clears his throat. “How does the tale say you summon Death?”

“Find a place where the wind blows, and the earth shifts, and the water runs,” the Queen answers. “Go at sunset or sunrise, in between day and night, when the stars dance with the sun and moon both. Bring with you blood, and willpower, and something you have hunted and killed with your own hands.”

“I need to kill something?”

“You must speak the language of Death,” the Queen says with a shrug. “Or so the tale goes. Do you still wish to . . . motivate us?”

Eggsy looks at the grenade and shrugs as nonchalantly as he can, given that his mind and heart are racing. He didn’t bring any Kingsman tech, mostly because they would cease to work the second he crossed into the Court’s domain, and so all of the information he has learned rest with him and him alone. He needs to make it back to Earth – and Kingsman HQ – if he’s to relay it to merlin and the others.

Which means he needs to not be obliterated, captured, or seduced by the fae.

“No, I think I’ve got what I came for.” Eggsy bows, deep and low, like Harry taught him, and smiles. “Thank you for granting my boon, Your Majesties. I will always remember your kindness.”

“As will we,” the King rumbles. “Do let us know if you succeed, young Unwin. We would be fascinated to hear your tale.”

Eggsy isn’t stupid enough to agree to that – words can be just as binding as actions, in the Court – so he just turns and walks straight back out, keeping his finger carefully on the switch. The fae part from him, silent as the wind, like a sea of wings parting as one. None of them seem to harbor him ill will, but Eggsy still keeps to the fastest pace he can without running. 

Fae don’t need ill will to kill, after all.

“Good luck, Gary Eggsy Unwin,” calls the Queen. “If you don’t succeed, there is always room for another champion of the Court.”

 _As if I need more motivation to succeed_ , Eggsy thinks, and plunges headfirst through the portal back to Earth.

* * *

Merlin’s face is skeptical as Eggsy recounts his story, but then again, he’d been skeptical about building a fake grenade filled with cold iron shards. Roxy, at least, listens with an open, if exhausted face, because it turns out that rebuilding a century old organization from the ground up whilst rooting out traitors takes a _lot_ of time, and they’re down more than a few knights. They’ve been so busy they haven’t even had time to elect an Arthur.

“So they said I need to bring blood and something I have killed,” Eggsy concludes. “Dunno what I could use, but I guess I can find something.”

“Well, there’s plenty of game around HQ,” Merlin says slowly. “But I assume the blood will have to come from you.”

“A few more drops won’t kill me.”

Merlin rubs at his eyes. “And I suppose you want me to run a search for all areas that match the Queen’s description?”

“I already did,” Roxy says, which is why she is Eggsy’s favorite person. “I took a few liberties, because, well, the description is probably meant to be more flowery than it might be in reality. There aren’t many places where you can physically go where there is crumbling earth, ocean waves, and strong winds that humans haven’t invaded and brought cold iron into, never mind a place where you can see the stars and moon and sunrise. It was probably easier in the original story.”

“Assuming, of course, that the original story is true,” Merlin interjects, rubbing at his forehead. “Lad, it’s one thing to walk into a Court with a fake grenade, but it’s quite another to try and summon Death based on a nursery tale.”

“And my fake grenade worked, didn’t it?”

“You might as well wish upon a star,” Merlin groans, as if he wishes he still had hair to yank on. “The King and Queen are notorious for setting people up just for fun. They’ve got nothing else better to do, they’re powerful immortals with nothing to use their power on.”

Eggsy shrugs. “They could have sent me away without telling me the tale or giving me the information, but they did,” he points out. “You and Roxy know the nursery tale, but you didn’t know how the tale contained information on how the fae and the human summoned Death. And yeah, sure, they could’ve made it up. But maybe they just want to see what happens if someone tries it.”

“That is exactly what they want, I bet,” Merlin says.

“But you’re still going to do it, aren’t you?” Roxy asks.

“I gotta try, Rox,” Eggsy says. “I gotta try. Harry would, if it were me.”

Merlin huffs. “Yes, he would, because you two are both idiots.” He stands, stretching his wings and cracking his neck, before he fixes his eyes upon Eggsy with deadly seriousness. “Eggsy. Do you know the one other thing they say about Death?”

“Nope.”

“Hmm. The saying goes _only death can pay for life_. Are you prepared for that?”

Eggsy swallows hard and looks at the floor. On one hand, yeah, he’s young and doesn’t want to die just yet. On the other hand, the fae did tell him to bring something he hunted and killed, and Eggsy is more than familiar with the fae habit of using one thing to stand in for another in magical rituals. Case in point: magical tattoos to symbolize an agreement, instead of a signed piece of paper.

“I suppose I’ll find out,” Eggsy tells him honestly. “Ain’t that how it is for all of us when the time comes?”

Merlin sighs. “You’re definitely like Harry. Why me.”

* * *

The search takes a week to run. Kingsman’s systems still manage to find a handful of sites that match the criteria laid out by the fae King and Queen, but some of them are inaccessible, some of them are out of the question, and some of them are just too crowded, even if the ritual turns out to be a dud. Eventually, they settle on one place that is reachable by Kingsman jet, is fairly uninhabited, and has a small forest nearby where Eggsy can conceivably hunt down an offering for Death.

Unfortunately, even though Eggsy is raring to go, he still has a commitment to the Kingsman and to his family. For Kingsman, this involves assisting in verifying that staff members were not part of Valentine’s scheme, so Eggsy spends a lot of time pouring over security footage to ensure that their necks are clean, their bank accounts don’t have any sudden deposits, and their travel is as expected.

For his family, it involves an actual visit.

His mum greets him with a hug, so tight that Eggsy feels like his organs are being squeezed out of him. He doesn’t protest, though, and hugs her back nearly as tight, grateful that she listened to him and ditched her free Valentine SIM card. She hadn’t been happy to return to using Kingsman tech, but Eggsy sorted that out by purchasing some regular phones from a store that Merlin vetted for him.

“Oh, you’ve grown so much!” his mum gushes. “And you’re dressed so smartly!”

“I could say the same,” Eggsy teases, because underneath the old kitchen apron is a brand new outfit, well-tailored and matching, pretty and fitting in a way Dean never would’ve allowed, once. It’s not too fancy, just comfortable clothes for lounging at home, but it’s miles and miles away from only a year ago.

His mum, predictably, swats him. “None of that from you,” she scolds. “Now, come on, you’re just in time for lunch! I reckon Daisy is dying to see you.”

Daisy indeed starts burbling the second she catches sight of him. She’s grown too, with curls on her head and bright shining eyes, and she bangs her cup on the toddler seat in emphasis until Eggsy rounds the table and lifts her out and cuddles her close.

“Hey there, Daisy mine,” Eggsy croons. “Look at you, so gorgeous and grown! Like a proper daisy.”

Daisy giggles in excitement, waving her fists at him, before Eggsy returns her to her chair. His mum bustles over with plates of steaming hot home cooked food, and Eggsy sits down for a proper lunch with his mum and his sister for what feels like the first time in forever, and it’s honestly _wonderful_. 

Kingsman is his family too now, undeniably. Merlin has guaranteed him a position, due to his skills and the fact that they can’t just let him loose on the streets with everything he knows and has seen, and Roxy and Amelia are at the top of his speed dial.

Yet the warmth in his stomach when he sees his mum’s brilliant smile and hears Daisy’s playful shrieks is unmatched, familiar and sweet like the best hot cocoa, and Eggsy soaks it all in.

“How’s your job?” his mum asks, in between spooning food into Daisy’s mouth.

Eggsy shrugs and smiles. “Bit of a slow time, now – the shop got little wrecked with the. Well. You know. But online orders are keeping us in business, and they’ve started training me up for that position now that they have more demand. So it’s likely if I do well, I can stay on in my new position, and the pay ain’t too shabby.”

“You better be putting some of that pay aside for yourself,” his mum says, pointing a spoon at him like a lance. “Don’t spend it all on me and Daisy, you hear me?”

“Of course I will.”

“I mean it, Gary Unwin,” his mum tells him. She sets down her utensils and looks at him full in the face, dead serious. Even Daisy senses the shift in atmosphere and settles down, quietly finger-painting with her mashed baby food. “You’ve done all you should and more. You got a house – don’t even try and interrupt me, I knew it were your doing, your finger prints were all over it – and you bought a lot of furniture and clothes. It’s time you thought about yourself, now.”

“It came with the job,” Eggsy protests weakly.

His mum snorts. “Unless that job involves some adult stuff that shouldn’t be said around Daisy, we both know it’s more than that. You called them, didn’t you? You called in the favor.”

Eggsy gapes at his mum. He’d forgotten, really, how sharp she used to be, before Dean and drugs and sorrow got their sharp claws in her. Used to be that he couldn’t get away with anything under her eye, not even an extra cookie in the middle of the night, but after Dean had come around, his mum wouldn’t have noticed if he’d brought in ten of his mates and burned the house down. 

But Dean is gone now, and his mum is clean as a whistle thanks to Kingsman’s recommendation for a top rehab place, and now her eyes are _very_ knowing.

His mum raises a hand. “I knew your da didn’t tell me everything about what he did,” she says softly. “And I know maybe you can’t either. But. You called in the favor to get rid of Dean, didn’t you?”

Eggys looks at the floor. Scuffs his shoe. Clears his throat. Thanks his lucky stars he isn’t a fae and bound to speak the truth. “Yeah,” he says.

His mum nods once, sharp and decisive. “Then you’ve more than done your part to take care of us, my love,” she says. “You got rid of Dean, you got us this beautiful house, lord knows you’re probably putting aside money for my retirement and Daisy’s uni studies. But that’s enough, Eggsy. I’m your mum. I can take over from here, I promise. It’s time for you to think of yourself. I want you to be happy, darling.”

“But this – all of this – makes you happy. Seeing you safe. Seeing Daisy happy.”

“But we can’t be everything for you,” his mum replies. “You need your own life too, and your own happiness. You find it and you hold onto it with everything you got, you hear me?”

“Yeah,” Eggsy answers weakly. “I hear you.”

“Good. Now. Seeing as you haven’t stopped by in six months, you get to be treated to all the stories about my coworkers and Daisy. Cuppa?”

“Yeah. That’d be good.”

* * *

Eggsy finally bides goodbye to his mum and Daisy late that night. His heart is full, so full, after an evening on the sofa watching crappy television and sharing takeaway for dinner with his mum and cuddling Daisy as she dozed off. He’s even more pleased to note that Merlin didn’t skimp on the Kingsman protective measures, and while they aren’t as good as Harry’s or any other active agents, they’re still more than enough to give any intruder a nasty surprise. It’s nice, to know that they’re safe and happy. 

His mum gives him another hard, bruising hug when she sees him off. He almost wants to ask her if she’s guessed the truth, if she has any idea, if she’d give him her blessing – but in the end, he doesn’t.

Because he knows that she knows what it’s like, to live on after the death of the man she loved with her heart and soul, and he also knows that if he fails, he’ll just have to pick himself up and be like his mum. To survive and be strong and keep moving forward. To find his own happiness.

“I’ll drop in again soon, okay?” Eggsy says.

“We’ll be here,” his mum says, and kisses him on the cheek. “Now, be gone with you, and go to your secret agent things.”

“Mum!”

* * *

Finally, about a month after his visit to the Court, everything falls into line. The knights have all finished their most pressing missions and are returning to HQ to vote upon an official new Arthur, and so Eggsy doesn’t have to worry about taking a jet out of the fleet’s service for his own personal reasons. Merlin gets a satellite into place above the patch of land his systems have identified, so that he can keep an eye on Eggsy and – hopefully – scramble the medical teams if Eggsy is successful. And, perhaps most importantly, his mum and Daisy head off to a vacation, the first in forever, and so won’t be surprised if Eggsy doesn’t immediately return their calls and texts.

Roxy also forces Eggsy to sit down with some of the Kingsman’s legal counsel, so he gets all of his accounts and assets into place just in case. She’s the only one to walk Eggsy to the plane, since merlin is wrangling the knights.

They walk mostly in silence, but on a whim, as they reach the plane, Eggsy speaks. “Do you think I’m crazy, Rox?”

“I knew you were crazy from the moment we met,” she says with an eye roll. 

“I meant for this.”

“I knew what you meant.” She comes to a stop and takes a deep breath, her fingers and wings twitching. Otherwise she is composed, dressed beautifully in a polished Kingsman suit, and looks every inch a regal knight. “But love makes us all do crazy things, right? I don’t think you’re the first or the last who’ll try this. The story exists for a reason.”

“Would you do it? If you were me.”

Roxy hums. She tilts her head to the side, evaluating him as if he’s a target. She smiles tightly. “No,” she answers. “But I’ve never been bonded to someone. Maybe if I were, I’d give a different answer.”

Eggsy blows out a long breath. He looks to the jet, fully fueled and ready, even equipped with top of the line medical supplies and enough rations for two people at Eggsy’s own request. Everything is ready and yet part of him wants to call it all off, to run back into HQ and monitor the vote, to take the jet to Daisy and his mum and enjoy the beach, to sprint to the kennels and cuddle with the puppies that will soon be assigned to the new candidates for the positions still empty.

But only part of Eggsy.

The other part is fully motivated by the one hand in Eggsy’s pocket, which has a single preserved butterfly and flower, so delicate that if he were to remove them from their case they’d crumple into dust and fly away in the wind.

“Harry took a chance on me,” is all Eggsy says. “I think it’s time I took a chance on Harry.”

Roxy inclines her head. “Good,” she says. 

“Good?”

“A strong will and a good heart,” Roxy says, eyes glimmering with the magic of a fae, the magic she so rarely uses around Eggsy. “They can overcome even the most powerful magic. And you have them in spades. Good luck, Eggsy Unwin.”

They hug there, at the bottom of the plane’s stairs, and then Roxy turns smartly on her heel and strides back to HQ, to the waiting seat at the table with her name on it besides the other knights where she will cast her vote to decide the fate of Kingsman going forward. She does not look back and does not waver, as Orpheus should have done.

Eggsy, though, can’t resist the call of Eurydice, and he looks back, and gets in the jet.

* * *

Once Eggsy lands, he divests himself of most of his equipment. He has a feeling that bringing a gun to a standoff with Death would be useless, and so he brings only a satellite phone, three knives, some basic medical supplies, and a tarp. He also locks the jet up so that only a Kingsman can unlock it, just in case. He does not, however, record any message for his family, because he knows Roxy was right about the power of a strong will, and he does not wish to step into the pond of doubt until it grows and fills him up, drowning out any call to Death. That done, he sets off in search of something to kill. 

It’s a strange little place, this forest in the middle of nowhere. The birds chirp and the critters rustle and the wind blows, but gently, as if there is no need for alarm. It’s like when Eggsy stepped through the door to the Fae Court, that same pressure on his lungs and head, like he has stepped back in time and is feeling the weight of a thousand years of ancient history that cares not for little old human him.

Even the creatures do not seem to fear him; Eggsy sees at least one fox and two squirrels who look at him and continue right on their merry way. They also look a little bigger than a normal fox, but Eggsy isn’t exactly in the mood to do research, and so he presses on.

Finally, he comes to a small clearing. He can hear the ocean in the distance, waves crashing against the earth, and he can feel the power of the wind, just barely minimized by the ancient trees. Even more promising, there’s a herd of small deer at the far end of the clearing, lazily grazing on the fragrant green grass, little dancing fawns and gracefully calm mothers and prancing young males. In no time at all, Eggsy picks out an older deer, a large one with tall antlers and a limping back leg who is set a bit apart from the herd. Quietly, he drops his tarp, arms himself with a knife, and forms a plan of attack. 

Fortunately, Eggsy had been tapped to set up some of the wilderness courses, and so he puts those skills to use now, and edges forward.

* * *

As sunset approaches, Eggsy finally reaches the beach. It looks untouched by time or humanity, with a jagged shore and pebbles aplenty, and the sun’s rays reflect beautifully off the roaring waves. Behind him, Eggsy drags the deer he stalked and killed on the tarp, grateful for the long hours in the gym that Harry insisted upon to maintain his strength. 

When he reaches the waves, he pulls the tarp up and, with great difficulty, rolls the deer onto the sand, so that nothing manmade interferes. He folds it away, weighing it down with a rock, and lays two of his knives on top. One is crusted with red blood; the other is pristine. Eggsy doesn’t think Death will think a knife of any threat, but he isn’t eager to offend either, so he approaches the shoreline with nothing but the clothes on his back, the medical supplies in his pocket, and one knife in his hand. He stands next to his kill, holds out his hand, and pricks his finger. The blood wells up slowly, fat red droplets like dew in the dawn, until they are enough to slip off his finger and land on the deer, the sand, and the rising tide. Eggsy takes a deep breath, and thinks of Harry – his beautiful smile, his barely tamed-curly-hair, his glorious wings, everything that he was and everything he was to Eggsy.

And then he waits.

* * *

And waits.

And waits.

And waits.

* * *

And then, finally, just as the sun is halfway past the horizon, a change comes through the air. The wind, which has been strong and constant and salty, dies as suddenly as though someone flicked a power switch, and even the waves grow gentle and calm and soft. Eggsy’s bleeding stops, the wound closing around the clot until his skin appears as though he had never touched it, and the knife goes ice cold until Eggsy drops it with a gasp.

When he looks up, there’s a figure standing before him. They are not tall, but with the glare of the setting sun behind them, Eggsy has to squint to make them out.

“Hello, seeker,” says a low voice, thrumming full of power in a tone that vibrates Eggsy’s very bones. 

“Hello, human,” says a high voice, sharp and squeaky in a way that raises the hair all over Eggsy’s body.

“Hello, Gary Eggsy Unwin,” says a soft voice, sweet like a child, and the figure spreads their arms until they block out the sun and Eggsy can finally focus. 

Only to stumble back in shock, because instead of a tall creature in a dark hooded cloak with a scythe, instead before him stands _Daisy_. She’s smiling at him, dimples in her cheeks, hair done up in pigtails, a neat black dress with matching shiny black shoes on her tiny feet. The only hint that it’s not Daisy is that her eyes are completely black, like the sky on the night of a new moon.

Eggsy swallows hard. “Are you Death?”

“I have been called many names,” says the figure posing as Daisy. She tucks her hands into her pockets and tilts her head, smile widening. “But yes, Death is how you would refer to me in this tongue, although I must warn you that it is not entirely accurate.”

“Are you trying to frighten me off?”

“Frighten you?” Daisy throws her head back and laughs, and the earth itself trembles beneath Eggsy’s feet. “No. Why would I need to do that?”

Eggsy waves a hand at Daisy’s figure, half afraid to look at her and half afraid to look away. “Then why take my sister’s form?”

Daisy looks herself up and down, a thoughtful crease upon her forehead. She appears genuinely surprised to see her short stature and cute little dress, even holding out her short arms to admire them. Then she looks to Eggsy, and says, “Ah. I see. So this is who Miss Daisy, firstborn and lastborn of Michelle and Dean, is to you.”

“You didn’t – ”

“I am Death,” she interrupts. “Your human mind cannot comprehend me as I truly am – indeed, only one being in all of existence can comprehend me as I truly am. So I appear to you as the closest thing you relate to Death . . . or fear thing you most fear Death touching. Do you fear the death of Miss Daisy, Gary Eggsy Unwin?”

“She’s my sister!” 

Death shrugs, neat and precise as a needle sinking into cloth. “I have ferried sisters to the other side before. Some met their fate at the hand of their brothers.”

“I would never – ”

“Perhaps, if this is too discomforting, I can change forms,” Death says. She closes her eyes and spreads her arms wide again, and the sun grows bright again, too bright, until Eggsy must look away.

When he looks back, it’s even worse. 

“Mum,” Eggsy croaks.

His mum smiles at him, fond and indulgent, crinkles in her eyes. Her hair is a wild mess, barely contained in a ponytail, and she’s got her apron on. Yet her eyes are black too, unfathomable and unyielding, and Eggsy swallows and stands straight again. He’s faced down the end of the world and the void of space; what’s Death, after all that?

Eggsy lifts his chin and stares Death in the face. “I am Gary Eggsy Unwin,” he says, because true names are important. “I have come to ask you a question.”

Death seems amused. “Ask away.”

“Did you ferry a fae called Harry Hart to the other side?”

Death taps a finger on their leg. They take a while to answer, but Eggsy gets the impression it’s not out of rudeness or forgetfulness; Death simply operates on a different plane altogether, a different stream of time, and so what Eggsy perceives as a while might be only moments to a being as old as Death. Finally, Death answers, “What is it to you?”

Eggsy opens his mouth. He means to say a thousand things: Harry was his bonded partner, Harry was his mentor and friend, Harry was the fae who held his collar and who Eggsy owed a favor. 

Instead what comes out is a rather sappy, sorrowful: “He is the one I love.”

Death’s eyes sharpen. They rock forward in their shoes, like they mean to loom over Eggsy. Their lips part, and they sigh, “Ah. I see.”

“Do you?” Eggsy demands.

“No one understands love more intimately than I,” Death says. “When I said _I am Death_ , did you think I meant only the end of life? I am in all things, Gary Eggsy Unwin. I am the death of a season, giving way to a new one; I am the death of a day, giving way to night; I am the death of wood in a fire pit, giving way to warmth. I am the death of joy and love and hope, and I am the death of anger and hatred and fear. Of course I understand love. Perhaps I am the purest form of it, for I have seen love that transcends even me, and that is a rare thing indeed.”

Eggsy wets his lips. He would claim to be among that which transcends death, but he’s not stupid enough to try and suck up to Death. So instead, he asks, “Is my love one of those?”

“I do not know,” Death says with a shrug. “You haven’t passed into my care yet, have you?”

Death takes a step forward, perfectly balanced in the water without leaving a single ripple behind upon the surface of the water. And then another, and then another, and then another, until they stand on solid ground, and can kneel at the foot of deer that Eggsy hunted and killed and left as a sacrifice. Death smooths a hand down the deer’s neck, familiar as a mother to a babe, and says something in a language Eggsy does not know.

“Why have you summoned me with blood and sacrifice and will, Gary Eggsy Unwin?” Death asks. “Do you desire to join your beloved in the next life?”

“No,” Eggsy answers, too-quick, to try and shut off the temptation before it spreads.

Death tilts their head. “It would only take a moment. It would be as painless as slipping into sleep.”

“No,” Eggsy repeats, firmer. He settles his feet into the ground, looking at the visage of his mother, and thinks of his mum and Daisy and Roxy and Merlin and Jamal and everyone else he loves, still alive, still here, still waiting for him. “I’ve got people depending on me. It ain’t my time.”

“Well,” Death says, rising to their feet, “at least you are wise enough to know that. I assume, then, that you intend to ask for your beloved to be brought to you instead of going to them?”

“Can you do it?”

Death sighs, like wind blowing through the trees. “So many have asked. So many.” Death looks at Eggsy, and says, “But so few are ready for what it will cost. It is not an easy thing, Gary Eggsy Unwin, for me to defy what I am, and release someone in my care back into Life’s domain. It would be like asking you to defy gravity, or live without breathing, or see without eyes.”

“Humans made planes to fly.”

“They still obey gravity. They merely compensate for it.”

Eggsy points at the deer he killed. It wasn’t an easy kill either, and Eggsy won’t let it go to waste. “There’s your compensation,” he tells Death.

“That isn’t enough. And I think you know it.”

Eggsy swallows hard. “I’ll pay whatever price you want,” Eggsy says. It’s hard to get the words out, and they’re soft, but there’s a difference between being soft and being unsure, and Eggsy learned a long time ago how to speak softly but firmly. “I won’t leave here without Harry. Even if I have to do this again tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that. I owe him a favor that is unpaid, and I intend to fulfill it.”

Death looks at him, for a long, long moment. Death’s features blur, fog creeping across them, and when everything settles again, Death looks like Daisy again, sweet and small and cute.

“Even if the price I demand is one you can’t comprehend?” Death asks.

“Nothing can be worse than being without him.”

“All of this,” Death muses, “just for a favor?”

“Yes,” Eggsy says. “For a favor, because it’s so much more than a favor. I’d call it a life debt. We struck a bargain and I made him a promise, and I’ll keep going until Harry is alive to see me fulfill it.”

And Death looks at Eggsy, and Death inclines their head. Death clambers onto the deer, using it as a stepstool, and reaches out with one tiny hand to touch Eggsy’s cheek. Their eyes are black pools, unreadable and ancient, and Eggsy can just make out the outline of two great, sharp instruments bound to Death’s back, positioned apart like a fae’s wings would be. Death blinks, just once, and then smiles, wide as a lion yawns, revealing a mouth full of teeth that sparkle like stars. 

“You have a good heart,” Death pronounces, “and a strong will. Yes. I will demand a price from you, Gary Eggsy Unwin, and I will release Harry Hart from my domain back into the care of Life. Are you ready?”

Eggsy takes a death breath. He straightens his back, plants his feet, lifts his chin. If this is to be his end, he will not meet it cowering on the ground.

How can he, if he is to see Harry again?”

“Name your price,” Eggsy says.

“As only life can lead to death, only death can pay for life,” Death says. 

And it’s words, but it’s not just words; Eggsy can feel each settling into deep into his bones, like a thousand tiny needles, burrowing deep and leaving some ancient magical ink. Faintly, he registers that Death is concentrating and pulling _something_ out of Eggsy, but mostly, he is staggering under the weight of those ancient words and the meaning contained therein. Because as Death told him before – Death is so much more than the end of Life, and Life is so much more than the beginning of Death, and Eggsy thinks – for just a moment – he is getting a glimpse at the great dance between Death and Life, something no mortal being can truly comprehend, and his mind is _overflowing_ and Eggsy is screaming and – 

And then Death pulls away, abruptly and sharply, with the finality of ripping off a scab, and Eggsy collapses to the ground, panting and dizzy like he’s run a triathlon. Maybe several triathlons.

When Eggsy finally catches his breath and manages to look up, Death is holding one of those great sharp instruments in one hand, and Eggsy can finally see that it has solidified into a scythe. In their other hand, they hold a spot of pure light, so bright Eggsy can’t look at it, like a miniature sun.

“It is done,” Death announces, each word shaking the earth. “Death has paid for Life.”

So saying, Death raises their hands, bringing the curved end of the scythe to meet the shining pure light, and they hold them together as sparks begin to fly, as though they are forging a sword. The light grows even brighter, if that is possible, and there’s a distinct burnt metallic smell, sharp and acrid, like a volcano. When Death finally lowers their hands, the scythe is no longer half of a curved blade, but one circle of radiant light upon a black stick of darkness, like a halo.

Death points this halo at the deer Eggsy killed, and says, “How fitting. A hart for a Hart.”

Then Death touches the bright halo of whirling light to the deer, and presses hard, and the burnt metallic smell changes to that of burning meat. Eggsy covers his nose, wincing, but he does not dare look away, because deep down he knows that this is something he’d rather remember. It’s what he paid for, after all.

“Life has paid for Death,” Death says, solemn as a funeral speaker. “Now let Death pay for Life.”

And the deer . . . jerks. 

Eggsy watches with wide eyes as the deer’s head twitches and its legs flail and its hide ripples all over, but Death does not seem alarmed and continues to press the halo to the deer’s hide. The bright circle of light is getting dimmer, spreading all through the deer, and its movements are getting wilder and wilder, until at last the side tears apart down the middle, like the deer’s skin has given way under immense pressure. Blood follows, and cracked bone, and torn up muscle, and in the middle of it all, a human hand.

“What the – ”

And Death pulls the reformed scythe away, and steps aside, and clears their throat.

“Here is your beloved,” they say softly. “I have returned him to the care of Life, and to you. Treat him well, for you have paid dearly for his return.”

Eggsy looks at Death, and at the now frantically waving hand, and scrambles forward. He seizes the blood-soaked hand and pulls with all his might, and slowly, bit by bit, an elbow emerges, and then a shoulder, and then a wing and a head and a torso.

 _Harry_ bursts through the split in the deer’s side, soaked with blood and bruised all over and naked as a newborn babe, gasping and shaking and alive.

“What – Eggsy,” Harry breathes, and nothing is more beautiful than the sound of his name on Harry’s lips, even hoarse, even said between spits and heaves, even confused and alarmed and on edge, because it’s Harry.

Eggsy hurls himself forward, uncaring of the blood or viscera, and hugs Harry so tight that he wheezes and flaps his wings a little bit, as if he needs air.

“Eggsy – ”

“You’re all right now,” Eggsy interrupts, squeezing hard. “You’re alright, Harry. Oh my god, you’re alright.”

And Harry – Harry hugs him back, squeezing just as tight, and his beautiful green and blue wings fold around them, and his heart beats under Eggsy’s ear and his chest rises and falls against Eggsy’s chest and he is _alive_.

When they finally pull apart, minutes or weeks later, Eggsy can see that the blood is starting to fall off Harry, drying like paint and peeling off. The deer Harry forced his way through to return to life is gone, with only a few scattered spots of blood to mark its presence. Death is gone too, as quietly as they had come, and the sun has fully set, with the moon twinkling at them.

“Eggsy,” Harry says. He frowns. “I had a very strange dream. I think . . . I think I died.”

Eggsy blows out a long breath and laughs. “Harry, we got a lot to cover. Like. A lot.”

“Is the first thing going to be finding me clothes?”

“Well . . . I have a tarp?”

* * *

The first thing Merlin does when Eggsy returns with Harry is to gas them, which isn’t at all surprising. Eggsy and Harry could hold out for a while, but Eggsy just rolls his eyes and breathes deeply and Harry just crosses his arms. When they wake up, they’re chained to medical bed, dressed in brand new clothes with monitors above their heads and a scowling Merlin looming over them. He interrogates them with rapid fire questions, magical curling around his wrists, and his scowl only deepens when they answer everything correctly. Even the last question, which is “And who is the current Arthur?”

To which Eggsy says, “I dunno, you?”

Harry sighs in aggravation and says, “I don’t bloody know, I’ve been dead!”

Merlin gives them a look of deep loathing, although not one tinged with distrust. It’s all fond exasperation, and it makes Eggsy grin to see it again, because he hasn’t seen that kind of relaxed emotion from Merlin in months. Plus there are no bags under his eyes anymore, which means that Roxy either sat on him or drugged him. Personally, his bet is on drugging because Roxy plays to win.

“Congratulations on not being dead,” Merlin tells Harry. To Eggsy, he says, “Congratulations on confirming your identity.”

Harry splutters. “What was the point of this interrogation if not to prove my identity?”

“I wanted to make sure your head was on straight,” Merlin replies with a shrug. “Now you get to submit to a proper and full physical examination, or you get to remain tied to the bed. Your choice.”

Eggsy winces. He went through one “proper and full physical examination” when Harry first brought him to Kingsman HQ, and that was enough. It’s invasive, of course, with vials of blood and hair samples and peeing in a cup, but mostly it’s just terribly tedious. The Kingsman doctors are merciless and rigorous, and if they have the slightest doubt about someone, it’s onto medical leave until they decide the person is fit for duty. Even Arthur bowed to their choice.

Harry groans and thumps his head against the bed. “Why did I agree to come back,” he moans.

Merlin snorts. “Beats me,” he says, and stomps towards the door.

“Oi,” Eggsy calls after him. “Who’s the new Arthur anyways, Merlin?”

Merlin pauses at the door. He takes a deep breath, and then tilts his head. “No one,” he says, and then leaves like he didn’t just effectively announce that their entire organization is leaderless.

Harry hums thoughtfully. “That means,” he murmurs to Eggsy, “that they wanted Merlin and he refused.”

“Smart man.”

“Indeed.”

* * *

Harry passes the medical examination after about a week, which he complains to Eggsy is mostly the doctors wanting to see if he can eat, drink, bleed, urinate, and defecate. Eggsy, who is busy clearing out the hundreds of emails in his account, just hums and nods mindlessly as Harry complains, and then goes and gets the car when Harry bolts as soon as he gets the official all-clear from the head doctor, a very stern woman who gives Eggsy her direct number and tells him to call her immediately if there’s any concern.

“Uh, sure,” Eggsy says, and puts the card in his pocket.

Fortunately, Harry hasn’t gotten far. Death brought him back, but they didn’t completely heal him, and so he walks with the aid of a cane and still has plenty a bruise and stab wound. His eye, too, is unsalvageable, and Merlin is already talking about either a replacement eye or glasses with special lenses. Harry had just grunted. 

“Wait up, old man,” Eggsy calls down the hallway.

“Who are you calling old? I can still beat you in a spar,” Harry gripes, but he does indeed slow his pace considerably.

No one is in the halls except techs and support staff, since most of the knights are still arguing over who should be Arthur, so Harry and Eggsy manage to get to the cars without interruption pretty easily. Eggsy gets in first, just to prevent Harry from trying to drive, and Harry gives him a deeply annoyed look and gets in the passenger seat. He settles in with a sigh, readjusting his cane, and then opens his tablet and begins to type something, likely a report or whatnot. Eggsy just ignores him and begins to drive home, since he knows the route like the back of his hand.

“Home sweet home,” Eggsy says, as they pull up.

Harry looks briefly surprised. “Have you been living here in my absence?”

Eggsy shrugs, because he isn’t sure where else he was meant to take Harry. Homes for deceased agents usually remain in their file for at least a year, in case some agent was accidentally declared dead and wanders back to HQ. It’s happened three times, so it’s a standing policy. “Well, at first we were too busy stopping the apocalypse to clear everything out, but . . . well. Yeah. It’s close to the shop and HQ. Did . . . Did you not want to stay here?”

“No, of course not,” Harry says quickly. “I just. Well. Let’s go in, shall we?”

Eggsy did not make any major changes to Harry’s house besides more clutter, since he took home his own Kingsman laptop and also bought groceries and normal kitchen appliances that weren’t heavy as hell cold iron pots and pans. So Harry is able to key in the code and stride right in like he never left, dropping his coat at the door like always and toeing off his shoes in the entryway like always. Eggsy’s usually annoying ritual of hanging the coat up and fixing the shoe alignment is deeply satisfying now, and Eggsy finds himself smiling widely, because Harry is alive and _home_.

Harry even heads straight for the kitchen and the stack of mail, and Eggsy’s so happy that he can head straight for the tea kettle and pour two cups instead of one.

“Good gracious,” Harry mutters when he starts sorting the mail. He continues muttering to himself, but Eggsy can see the lurid flyers from where he stands at the counter, and so he does nothing. He’s not that surprised, really; people want to party, now that they’ve survived the end of the world.

Once the tea is ready, Eggsy grabs the closest tin of biscuits and brings it all over. He nudges the tin towards Harry, and is gratified when Harry absentmindedly and automatically grabs one. Roll back the clock a week, and the scene wouldn’t be out of place for their usual tea break.

“Some habits die hard, huh?” Eggsy teases.

Harry looks up mid-bite and blushes, faintly. “I’ve gotten used to living with another person,” he admits. “But thank you, Eggsy. Thank you very much.”

“Sure.”

They work in silence for a few minutes – Eggsy on his tablet, Harry on the steadily shrinking pile of mail – but then Harry clears his throat.

“Eggsy,” he says, voice full of hesitation. 

“Harry?”

“I do have a question, and I hope – I hope you won’t find it offensive.”

“No, I did not smoke pot in your house, Harry,” Eggsy replies automatically with an eyeroll, because even though Harry has a good nose and an even better Kingsman sensor, he still thinks Eggsy would try to vape or smoke in his house.

“What? No. Not that.”

“Oh. Then what?”

Harry tears an envelope apart and chucks it in the bin. It’s almost like he needs to keep his hands moving, and it shows in his too-nonchalant tone. “I must ask . . . why did you continue living here? You are not bound to this house, or me. Not anymore.”

It’s a loaded question and Eggsy does not at all like or appreciate the implications, but, hey, that’s why he went through Kingsman training – to learn how to control himself, how to absorb the panic, to acknowledge the anger, to breathe and keep moving and do what must be done. Eggsy falls back on that training now so that he finish his sip of tea and set the cup down, just as gently and casually as if Harry had asked about the weather. He shoves the anger and fear deep down, the _how can you ask that of me_ and the _how can you say I am not bound to you_ and the _how dare you_. He breathes in the emotions, breathes out the panic, and looks Harry straight in the eye.

“I think that’s a rather insulting question,” Eggsy replies, astounded at how calm he sounds. “But gentlemen don’t get to act insulted, do they?”

“Eggsy – ”

“So let’s play a game,” Eggsy continues, overriding Harry. “I’ll answer you if you’ll answer me.”

Harry hesitates. To refuse Eggsy would of course be rude, and Harry would never be rude. But Eggsy also knows that Harry really wants an answer to his own question, otherwise he wouldn’t have mustered the nerve to ask. 

Harry inclines his head. “I accept your terms. What’s your question?”

“You said you agreed to come back,” Eggsy says, watching the way Harry’s jaw twitches. “Why did agree to come back?”

Harry looks aghast. His wings droop and his mouth parts and his remaining eye quivers. He looks as torn up and hurt as Eggsy had felt, but he too has been trained and he too breathes out the pain. He reaches for his cup, picks it up, and takes a sip – but his hands are shaking, and Eggsy doesn’t think he actually got any liquid in his mouth. He sets them back down and clears his throat, looking at the floor.

“How could you ask that?” Harry says, pain in every syllable, looking back up as if Eggsy is too bright a light to behold without agony and yet too beautiful to resist. “Darling Eggsy, my dearest, how could you not know?”

He puts his hand on the table, palm up, beseeching, and finishes, “I agreed to come back for _you_.”

Eggsy’s heart takes flight. Wings he hadn’t even known existed burst into life around his heart and let it soar to the heavens, and Eggsy damn well knows he’s grinning ear to ear like an idiot. Because Harry’s good, but he’s not _that_ good, and it’s one thing to hear a muffled warmth of adoration through the bond and another to hear it loud and clear.

Eggsy places his hand in Harry’s, palm down, fingers curling around Harry’s wrist. “Well, you have your answer, then,” he says, only barely aware of his voice through the pounding in his chest. “I stayed because of _you_.”

Harry’s wings flair to life, spreading wide and proud, sparkling in the light. His head comes up, his shoulders straight, his eye goes wide, and he looks like his own heart has just soared out of his chest. He looks _alive_ , alight with magic and wonder and love, and it’s the most beautiful thing Eggsy has ever seen, right up there with Harry crawling from Death’s deer back into the world of the living.

“Eggsy, do you mean it?”

“Guess the fae way rubbed off on me,” Eggsy jokes. “Tell no lie, and all that.”

“Eggsy, darling,” Harry breathes, and he lunges forward and squeezes Eggsy tight, even tighter than when he came back to life. This time his wings fold around Eggsy, unashamedly brushing against his hair and skin and clothes, and Eggsy hugs back just as tight, relieved and amazed and joyous, happier than he’s ever felt.

And so it happens that their first kiss is like that, tangled in a hug, with a cooling pot of tea in front of them, tears on their cheeks and biscuit crumbs on their lips, in the kitchen of their home.

Eggsy wouldn’t trade it for the world.

* * *

**One Year Later**

Harry is well aware that of the two of them, he’s the most likely to be late to everything and anything. It’s his signature calling card, and even having two assistants, Merlin, and Eggsy nagging him aren’t enough to stop this particular habit. Eggsy likes to joke that it’s befitting of Arthur, the Once and Future King who “didn’t bother to rise on time during the goddamn phone apocalypse”. 

That being said, without fail, it’s usually Eggsy who is late to bed. 

In fact, tonight, as usual, Harry has bathed, changed, and climbed into bed to mindlessly scroll through drivel on his tablet for over an hour before Eggsy finally comes to join him. Eggsy claims it’s because of JB, but the little pug is right behind Eggsy and only wheezing a little bit, so it’s not like Eggsy took him for a jog or anything.

Harry tilts his head. “How is that you can send me seven texts about being late to a briefing and yet it takes you nearly seventy minutes to come to bed?”

Eggsy, who has half of his pants off, flies him the finger. “Cuz I get to set my own schedule of joining into work and it won’t matter if I’m five minutes later,” Eggsy replies, as usual. “But it looks bad when _Arthur_ is late. Besides, JB – ”

“I owned a dog too. He was never the reason.”

“You were a trainee when you had Mr. Pickle, you had to be on time or get expelled,” Eggsy says with an eyeroll. He balls his pants up and tosses them into the hamper, breezing past the bed towards the washroom. “And JB’s still a little small to get up the stairs. I gotta watch him just in case.”

Harry sighs, louder than usual so Eggsy can hear it over the sounds of splashing. “I truly regret the day I let you tour the kennels after the candidates had had their pick.”

“Merlin has a photo of your face when I was playing with JB, and regret wasn’t on it.”

In truth, he knows Eggsy is right. Eggsy hadn’t been involved with the candidates during the first round, so he never got to know the puppies until they were grown and trained. After Harry became Arthur, though, it became clear that new trials would be needed to fill the handful of seats left empty, and so many more puppies were brought, and after a tour of the kennels, Eggsy had trailed behind and gotten a good look at JB’s little face and that had been that. It had been wonderful, to see Eggsy squirming on the floor with a little ball of fluff clambering all over him, and even though candidates hadn’t chosen their dogs, Harry hadn’t had the heart to refuse Eggsy when he’d trotted up with JB in his arms.

Merlin has sent him the photo. He is indeed not looking the least bit regretful.

Still, Harry can’t let Eggsy win without a fight. “Beauty of hindsight,” Harry says with a sniff.

“Blah blah blah,” Eggsy mocks, emerging from the washroom with minty fresh breath and his atrociously orange pajamas that Harry regularly begs him not to wear, for the sake of his remaining eye. (Eggsy always retorts that Harry’s _grandpa brown pajamas are just as bad_.) He ushers JB into his dog bed before taking a neat bound onto their bed, crawling up to Harry and batting his eyes. “Admit it, you like having a dog here again.”

“My shoes have been chewed on,” Harry says, lowering his tablet, “my walls have been used as scratching posts, and my garden has been dug up. And he urinated all over the entryway.”

“He’s a puppy!”

“Kingsman has an excellent dog training course. You should enroll him in it.”

“He’s not a working dog,” Eggsy scoffs. “He’s my pet.”

“But not mine.”

Eggsy slips up to Harry, elbowing his tablet off to the side of the bed and laying his weight upon Harry’s lap. He grins, wide and smug, and says, “But what’s yours is mine, darling. You promised me.”

Harry looks at the ring glinting at Eggsy’s finger and sighs. “I suppose I did, you brat,” he says, in a tone of exasperation, but it fails halfway through, because he still gets a thrill out of seeing his ring on Eggsy’s finger. It’s exhilarating, knowing that Eggsy is willing to accept them being bound the human way, after being bound so long the fae way – even if Merlin had literally slapped Harry on the head and said, “Eggsy’s gonna find out about the betting pool, if he doesn’t know already, and he’s going to join it and mock you for it when you do pop the question, so you might as well _propose already_.”

He had, that afternoon. Eggsy had accepted, squealed, kissed him, and then called Roxy and demanded his share of the pot. 

Harry is brought out of such pleasant memories by the sound of JB farting. He sighs. “Why did I agree to this?”

Eggsy laughs merrily. He leans forward and kisses Harry on the lips, like no other answer could possibly compare, and honestly, he’s right. Harry kisses him back, folding a wing forward to brush lovingly against Eggsy’s face, and afterwards Eggsy slides under the covers and they cuddle close, as they always do, after the security protocols have been engaged. Usually Eggsy falls asleep first, with Harry following soon thereafter, and tonight is just like any other, because Eggsy’s breathing evens out into slumber in only a few minutes. 

Unlike any other, though, Harry is just about to join Eggsy when he senses . . . something.

Frowning, he casts about the room, because Harry hasn’t lived this long by ignoring his instincts, and picks out a shadow in the corner that is darker than anywhere else – darker than the room should be. 

Harry inhales quietly. It would be the first time that someone got past their extensive security measures, now even more stringent after Harry’s election to the post of Arthur, but that doesn’t mean Harry is wholly reliant upon said security system. There are about a dozen guns in the bedroom alone, and never mind everything else that is or can be turned into a weapon. And there are at least two panic buttons. That being said, Harry can acknowledge that he’s not the best of the best anymore, with his slow recovery and missing eye, and so he nudges Eggsy very, very carefully and hears the slight shift of Eggsy’s leg against his, the only clue that Eggsy has come to wakefulness.

Fortunately or unfortunately, before they can take action, the shadow speaks. 

“Calm yourself,” comes a voice, cocky and boyish. “I am not here to hurt you. Merely to have a civil discussion.”

Eggsy grunts and slaps the nearest light on, but the figure in the darkness doesn’t blink or startle in surprise. In fact, they merely smile and step closer, hands tucked in their pockets, hat perched jauntily on their head, shoes white and pristine.

Harry, though, sits bolt upright, because the shadow in the darkness is _Eggsy_.

Well, with one exception: the doppelganger’s eyes are darker than the night, so dark it appears the light of the lamp doesn’t penetrate or even reflect off of them.

Eggsy makes a surprised noise. “Death,” he says.

“Hello, Gary Eggsy Unwin,” says Death.

Harry looks from Death-as-Eggsy to Eggsy and then back again. He blinks. Their voices are exactly the same, the same faint accent, the same inflection, the same speech pattern. If Death had worn sunglasses, Harry honestly isn’t sure if he could have picked out that this person was not, in fact, Eggsy.

Eggsy nestles into Harry’s side, patting his shoulder. “It’s all right,” Eggsy tells him. “That’s just Death. They, uh, can’t be viewed by mortal eyes. So they appear as whoever you fear dying the most.”

Death inclines their head, very neatly, and this enables Harry to glimpse two sharp shadows at their back. Power radiates from those shadows, old and unbreakable, so Harry spreads his own wings in acknowledgment and nods back. There are some things even fae know better than to try and challenge.

“Hello, Harry Hart,” Death says, as casually as to an old friend. “It’s nice to see you in the care of Life. You are looking well.”

“Thank you for agreeing to return me to Life,” Harry says cautiously.

Death laughs, head thrown back and shoulders relaxed, just like Eggsy does. It’s quite strange. “You should thank your beloved. He argued quite fervently for you. And of course he paid the price for your return.”

Eggsy’s fingers sink into Harry’s arm. It’s painful, but Harry bears the pain with joy, for it is Eggsy. He settles one of his wings around Eggsy’s shoulder and holds him close.

“Are you hear to collect it?” Eggsy asks, calm and collected and every inch the proud man Harry is so honored to have witnessed evolve.

That being said, Harry said pride aside a long, long time ago. He clutches Eggsy and begs Death, “Not yet. Please. Let me have some time with him. I’ll pay the price, if you need it. He is my everything."

Death tilts their head, and Harry gets the impression of ancient bewilderment, like a cat walking face first into a glass wall and discovering, to their shock, that it is in fact a wall and not a clear path forward. Death says, “I said I was here for a civil conversation, didn’t I?”

Harry feels more than sees Eggsy’s relief. Eggsy practically collapses against Harry, reaching up to hold his hand tightly, and Harry squeezes back just as tightly.

“Besides, Gary Eggsy Unwin has already paid the price, in full,” Death continues. “I am not without honor.”

Eggsy makes a soft sound of confusion. “But you said that only death can pay for life.”

“I did. And if you had not paid with death, Harry Hart would not be alive right now. Even I can only bend the rules so much.”

Harry looks at Eggsy, and Eggsy looks right back. This is how Harry knows that there is only confusion across both of their faces right now, which doesn’t bode well. If Eggsy, as the human who struck the deal, does not know and Harry, as the fae with the knowledge of magic and bargaining, does not know, well. . . 

As one, they turn back to Death. 

Death smiles at them, very gently, and this time Harry can tell the difference. Oh, Eggsy is good at jokes and pranks, but his eyes always give him away. Death, however, smiles so gently that Harry feels like they are giving a gentle proud pat on the head to atom-sized kittens who have only just now learned that they can walk. It’s different, humor with thousands of years of experience behind it.

“Only death,” they repeat, “can pay for life. I took your death, Gary Eggsy Unwin, to pay for Harry Hart’s life. The price is paid in full. I really just came to see how you were settling into your new existence. And you are looking well indeed.”

“ . . . Thank you?” Eggsy says.

Death smiles and dips a hand into their pocket, emerging with a watch. It’s circular in shape, colored gold and silver and bronze, but the similarities to a human watch ends there. Even from where Harry sits, he can tell that there are far too many numbers and arms. There’s even a skull and a flower. 

“Well, I must be on my way,” Death says cheerfully. “Souls to collect, people to find, journeys to make. The usual. Have a lovely night.”

Death rolls their shoulders back, and those great ancient shadows expand, unfolding into great black wings with feathers at the top and sharp spines at the button, far bigger than any wings Harry has ever seen, even compared to the Kings and Queens of the Fae Court. Death’s wings could swallow the entire room whole, in comparison. 

“Oh, by the way,” Death calls out casually, “I like the colors.”

Harry flexes his wings and tries to smile. He’s had complements on his colors before, of course, including an embarrassing sonnet comparing his wings to the freshest streams and oceans by a lovestruck fellow university student, but it feels a little different to get a compliment from Death, who surely has seen much more beautiful wings. And also is . . . well, Death.

Still, Harry knows better than to be rude to Death. “Thank you.”

Death tilts their head. They crouch, as if getting ready to jump, and say, “Actually, I meant Eggsy’s wings. Ta!”

And just like that, in a blink of an eye, Death vanishes, and the room goes from shadowed in one particular corner to bright as every other part under the light. Harry hadn’t even seen the wings move, which probably speaks to Death’s power.

Of course, then Eggsy makes a horrible, pained sound, and Harry forgets all about Death.

Harry whips his head back around to Eggsy, only to find him rolling on the bed, scratching frantically at his back. There’s nothing there that Harry can see, at least at first, but then Eggsy grabs . . . _something_ and drags it away, letting out a moan of relief, and Harry gapes to see the pearly, luminescent, and barely visible silk of a cocoon.

“What – what is this?” Eggsy groans, reaching back to scratch furiously even more.

Harry can hardly bring himself to speak, so instead he joins Eggsy in the scratching and pulling at his back, until they begin to find their stride and pull what seems like yards and yards of that same pearly cocoon away. As soon as the last bit is removed, what the cocoon was covering finally becomes clear, and Harry can completely understand why Death paid Eggsy such a strange compliment.

Eggsy has _wings_.

Beautiful, stunning, gorgeous wings. They are still slightly damp from the cocoon, as are all wings when each fae is born, but as Eggsy keeps pinching them and rolling his shoulders and flaring them wide, they begin to dry and truly glow, so that the blue and green highlights from the lamp shining on Harry’s wings are joined by amazing orange, yellow, and blue highlights of Eggsy’s wings. The patterning is different, of course, as every fae’s is different, but the style is completely sleek and singularly – well, if Harry had to say for sure – singularly _human_.

“Eggsy,” Harry murmurs, “you have wings.”

“I have wings,” Eggsy breathes. “What the absolute goddamn f – ”

“I understand,” Harry interrupts, because he’s finally put the pieces together. “I understand what Death did.”

“Mind filling the rest of the class in?” Eggsy says, half hysterical. “I have _WINGS_ , Harry, I’m a human, we don’t get wings!”

Harry gently grasps Eggsy’s shoulder, turning him around to get a glimpse of his beloved’s face. Even Eggsy’s face is changed, slightly, cheeks angled and hair shimmering and eyes glowing with the subtle tint of magic deep inside. Harry almost wonders how he missed it, all these months, even if he was lovestruck enough to mistake it for adoration and joy and love.

“You were human,” Harry tells him. “Death said that only death can pay for life, yes? So they took your death from you, the moment in time where you would pass on, and no human was meant to be immortal, but you couldn’t be in between. That’s not how this works. So if you could not be a human anymore – ”

“I had to become a fae,” Eggsy finishes, eyes growing wide with realization. “So all this time – all this time I’ve been growing wings? I thought I was just allergic to our new laundry detergent?”

“Clearly not. The evidence is right behind us.”

Eggsy’s wings twitch, inching forward, and Harry willingly brings own wings forward. Eggsy has, of course, touched Harry’s wings before with his hands, but this – this gentle meeting of magic and silk and color – this is different. This time, as their wings touch, Harry and Eggsy both shudder, and Harry knows he’s grinning like an idiot.

“So we’re both immortal, then?” Eggsy asks.

“I guess so. I think it’d be lovely to live an entire immortality with you, my dear.”

“Me,” Eggsy says, a sly smile on his face, “and our dog.”

“Eggsy – ”

Eggsy cuts him off by pulling into a hug, just as tight as when Harry had come back to life and when they had first kissed, hands brushing at Harry’s wings. Harry hugs back, indulging in the first time of brushing his hands against Harry’s wings, and it’s so ownderfl that he lets Eggsy get the last word. They have the rest of eternity, after all, to argue as much as tey want.

“Let’s live long,” Harry says to Eggsy, “and prosper.”

“Yeah. That’s a good idea.”

And Harry smiles.

* * *

_And Death smiled, and laughed, and said, “Why, a favor is a life debt, a bargain and a promise both, carefully struck and forever honored, for it ties two souls together forevermore, in Life and in Death. It matters not who saves who, for when I come for you, I will come for you both, in this life and the next life and the life after that. There are some things even Death cannot sever. Would you not agree?"_

_And Death looked to the fae and the human, their hands clutched tightly together, the human’s ring upon the fae’s finger and the fae’s collar upon the human’s throat, and saw, just for a moment, a glimpse of true understanding cross their faces._

_But only for a moment._

_It was something, after all, that could not be truly understood in Life, but Death would come for them one day. Death always did._

_And so Death bowed in return, and said, “Long may you live, happily may you love, and prosperous may your fortunes be.”_

FINIS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: After that, Eggsy and Harry live the rest of the immortal lives together, enjoying everything from cooking and sleeping together to fighting at each other's side. The first time Eggsy flies with his own wings, he cries. Harry cries too. And then in the very, very, very distant feature, when Harry and Eggsy both pass on, Death greets them as old friends and sends them on the road to their next lives together . . . as Death did the first time, when they summoned Death to judge the meaning of a favor. _wink wink_
> 
> And that's the end! Thank you so much for reading, and once again thanks to my lovely artist [Chibiesque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chibiesque/pseuds/Chibiesque), who made truly [GORGEOUS art](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/ze9mpxbb9gj5xp6/14.JPG?dl=0). Honestly it took my breath away. 
> 
> P.S. I also highly recommend you check out the rest of the works in the [Kingsman Reverse Bang](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/KingsmanReverseBang).

**Author's Note:**

> Find me @ Telegram & Discord as TheSilverQueen : [Pillowfort as TheSilverQueen](https://www.pillowfort.social/thesilverqueen) : [Tumblr as thesilverqueenlady](http://thesilverqueenlady.tumblr.com) : [Twitter as silverqueenlady](https://twitter.com/silverqueenlady) : [NewTumbl as thesilverqueen](https://thesilverqueen.newtumbl.com/) : [Dreamwidth as thesilverqueenlady](https://thesilverqueenlady.dreamwidth.org/)


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